Hidden Depths
by HB's Favourite
Summary: It's in times of need that real friends come to the fore...
1. An End Has A Start

_As per usual, I don't own these fabulous individuals. _

**Hidden Depths **

**Chapter 1**

Imogen Drill burst into the staffroom, slamming the door behind her. As she dropped rather harder than she'd intended to into the discomfort of a wooden chair, she let her face fall into her palms and sobbed loudly, salty tears trickling between her fingers.

Amelia Cackle and Davina Bat, having heard the commotion, soon hastened into the room after her, with mutually perplexed expressions on their faces.

'Imogen, what on earth's the matter?' Amelia's asked with concern as Davina perched on the arm of the chair next to Imogen, placing a lace-clad arm around her colleague's shoulder. Imogen gasped for breath through her sobs, struggling to steady her voice.

'I think it's over - between me and Serge,' she said, almost inaudibly. Davina and Amelia exchanged confused glances. Neither of them was particularlyexperiencedin the relationship stakes, so judging how to respond on something they knew relatively little about whilst not appearing to be insensitive was a potentially delicate operation. Amelia went first, sinking into a seat opposite Imogen and taking her hand across the table.

'Oh dear, Imogen. I _am_ sorry – I know how much you liked him. If there is anything we can do…'

Davina nodded in avid agreement. 'It's _awful_ seeing you so upset,' she said. 'And so unlike you, dear.' She thought for a moment and her face brightened.

'_I_ know!' She reached into her pocket she pulled out a small, pink and white striped offering. 'How about a nice sweetie to take the edge off the pain?' she shrilled in the tones of one who was addressing a small child. Miss Cackle's face lit up as the possibility of there being more where that came from dawned on her, before consciously dismissing the thought from her mind.

'I think what Imogen needs, Davina, is the afternoon off and a lie down,' she walked to the window and ducked her head, grimacing towards the ominous grey clouds which were descending on the mountain. 'I doubt very much that the girls will miss their cross country practice this afternoon. Davina – take her back to her -'

At that moment the door flew open and Constance Hardbroom stood statuesque, with one hand on the door handle.

'What on earth is the matter with _you_?' she looked at Imogen with wide eyes, as though she had sprouted another head, reducing the gym mistress to a second mass of tears as she hurtled out of the staffroom, pursued shortly after by Miss Bat who paused to look up at Constance from her meagre height.

'You – _abominable_ woman!' She shrilled, her arms tense against her sides and her fists clenched with rage. And with that, she disappeared along the corridor after Imogen. Constance turned to the headmistress, aghast.

'What did _I_ do?'

Amelia simply closed her eyes and took a deep breath, reaching across the table and helping herself to the first of many chocolate Hobnobs.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Imogen woke late in the afternoon. The sun had already set and the school was in near-silence. She looked at her watch. The girls would be at dinner now, she thought. She ought to put in an appearance, but as she padded across the cold stone floor of her bedroom to the bathroom and manoeuvred the vanity mirror so that she caught her reflection, she let out a groan. The skin around her eyes was red and puffy, her eyelids were swollen, and remnants of her mascara had smudged beneath her lower lashes. She couldn't possibly let the girls see her like this. Besides, she had no appetite. She turned on the tap, watching the jet of water for a few moments. _I am not going to cry again_, she thought, bending towards the basin and splashing icy water onto her face. Grabbing a towel from the side of the bath she patted her skin dry and paced back into the bedroom, dropping onto the end of the bed.

It had been inevitable – the end had been in sight for some time. Serge and Imogen had been going through the motions, getting on well enough and still making each other laugh, but the spark had gone. Every time he touched her, she thought about someone else – and every time she thought about that someone else, it was the same someone else.

She rubbed her face as if to eradicate the thoughts from her mind. Despite being safe in the knowledge that she had never been unfaithful to Serge, she felt as though she had betrayed him. He was a good man – the _only_ man she had ever really loved – and she had jeopardised what they'd had for the sake of someone she could probably never have.

_Why couldn't you just have been grateful?_ she thought. _Why do you __always__ think the grass will be greener on the other side?_ Once upon a time, Serge had been standing on that grass, when she'd been alone and thought how wonderful it would be to have a life partner with so many shared interests. And how much more shared could those interests have been? The trip to Toronto, skiing in Val d'Isère, bungee jumping in New Zealand – all gone to waste because of her indulgent, selfish fantasies.

She thought of the person who had been haunting her thoughts for these past few months. _Where are they now? Not here, that's for sure. Not comforting you in your hour of need_. And for all she knew, they probably never would be.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Listening for the scramble of students returning to their rooms, Imogen slipped into her running gear and out of the castle. Just a brisk walk should do for tonight, she decided, striding across the courtyard and through the gate. She fiddled with her iPod until it was in "random" mode, turning up the volume as high as it would go. Her ears would ring in the morning – but she didn't care. She enjoyed nothing more than the combination of fresh air and her favourite music. The eeriness of the forest at night, with its lone owls hooting and creaking branches, was blocked out except for the majestic bulb of the moon lighting her path, obscured only by trees.

There was a stream about halfway down the mountain – rather an impressive stream, which wasn't deep but which rushed past loudly, the water gliding over the rounded cobbles of its bed, skittering over the larger, jagged rocks, bubbles collecting in a foaming mass as it meandered into the distance. Tonight, with the brilliance of the moon illuminating the clearing where the widest part of the stream was, Imogen felt quite at peace with the darker side of nature. Feeling the ground to ensure it was dry enough to sit, she slipped off her jacket and perched cross-legged at the side of the stream. The late night air was crisp and fresh against her skin. The tall, arrow-shaped evergreens were silhouetted against an indigo sky, and Imogen was reminded of the pointed hats the girls wore for special occasions.

The stars, blinking above her, turned her mind to her school-day astronomy lessons, and she racked her brains to remember what constellation she was gazing upon. Just as the elusiveness of the answer became frustrating, Imogen felt a disconcerting nip in the air, as though a presence was with her. She reached into her pocket, sending the crunching melodies of Metallica decreasing to silence. Shuddering slightly, she turned to look behind her on both . As she reconciled her nerves to the thought that she'd never heard any rumours of hauntings on the mountainside, she breathed deeply through her nostrils in an attempt to steady her beating heart.

Then, as the chill whipped through her again, she let out a scream as something touched her shoulder.


	2. A Mountainside Meeting

_OK – I probably shouldn't be uploading this yet as I had planned to complete the whole thing to ensure all loose ends were tied before publishing – but I got a little impatient…_

_Thanks for the reviews so far – all welcome, good or bad!_

_I don't own the characters etc. _

**Chapter 2 – A Mountainside Meeting**

'I thought I'd find you here,' Constance said, looking down at Imogen from her towering height.

'God, Constance!' Imogen scrambled to her feet, still reeling from the shock of not being alone on the mountainside. 'You scared the life out of me! What are you doing out here?'

'I might ask you the same question, Miss Drill.' Constance's stare was fixed upon her colleague, her expression revealing nothing of any emotion. A piercing wind whistled eerily about the mountain, snatching at Constance's loose strands of hair and her gown, which she had wrapped tightly around her slender form.

'I just came out for some… peace,' Imogen found the word unsatisfactory.

'I don't intend to disturb your peace, Miss Drill. But this isn't the safest place to be in the middle of the night and I thought you might appreciate some sort of company.'

Imogen watched her closely for a moment as she awaited the usual sarcastic twist to her intentions, then stooped to rearrange her coat on the ground so that Constance had half of it.

'Do you ever come here by yourself?' Imogen asked, aware that they'd been sitting in silence for several minutes. The continuous rush of the stream was therapeutic, creating a state of relaxation that was never present when the two of them were alone in the staffroom.

'Often,' replied Constance

'Why, if it's not safe?'

Constance inhaled deeply. 'To get out of the school, I suppose. It's the most tranquil place in the world at this time of night.'

'Don't you get a bit… scared?' Imogen immediately felt silly as she heard herself sounding like one of the pupils.

'No, Miss Drill, I certainly don't get "scared."' Constance mused as she emphasised the word.

'Do you think it's haunted?'

Constance surveyed Imogen, a vague look of amusement in her eyes. 'Of course it is. Everywhere is. Do you ever feel truly alone?'

Rubbing her hands together, Imogen clamped them between her knees for warmth. 'Not with people like you popping up out of nowhere!' she said.

Constance gave a half smile and turned her gaze towards the sky.

'I do think your sense of fear is heightened because of your non-magical background.'

Imogen shuffled. 'Are you having a go?' She watched as her colleague's eyes flashed in the moonlight.

'No, I am not – but there is very little you could do to defend yourself in a crisis. I am afraid that magic makes up for a lot of human frailties.'

Imogen thought about this, and contemplated for the first time how lucky she was to be in her position. Despite the fact that she had told her friends and family neither the exact location nor the nature of the school (and couldn't help but sometimes feel as though she were living out some elaborate fantasy) she had a job that some people would kill for. And as much as Constance was a force to be reckoned with in the workplace, Imogen knew that she had the power to protect them all.

'You know,' Imogen said, deciding not to mount her high horse regarding the non-witch remark, 'You _can_ call me Imogen, if you like?'

Constance said nothing, and Imogen took this to mean that she would _not_ like, and would-rather-keep-things-formal-between-them-thank-you-very-much. She watched an owl flapping past them, as visible as if its feathers were dusted with some sort of luminous powder.

'Are you going to tell me about Serge?'

Imogen felt her stomach contort at Constance's unexpected question.

'Who told you?'

'Miss Cackle, of course.'

'And what do you want to know?'

'What happened.'

Imogen shifted uncomfortably, not accustomed to having personal questions directed at her by the emotionally aloof Constance Hardbroom.

'It just wasn't working anymore.' She said, staring at her striped shoelaces. It crossed her mind that whenever she caught sight of them from now on, they would remind her of this conversation.

'What do you mean – not working?'

'I don't… _love_ him… anymore.'

'So you did love him?'

'…yes.' Imogen faltered.

Constance remained silent for a few moments, and Imogen became aware of having exposed her soul to the last person who would reveal anything about her own. She fleetingly hoped that Constance's concern – however stilted – was her own awkward way of apologising for her insensitive reaction in the staffroom.

'Why did you ask?' Imogen enquired. Constance got to her feet and brushed her gown with her hands.

'I'm not entirely bereft of emotion, Miss Drill. When I see someone in pain my first inclination is to help them.' Imogen flinched at Constance's insulted tone. She hastened to her feet and towards her colleague who was already heading back towards the looming turrets of the school.

'I didn't mean – Constance, _wait_!' She caught up with her, slightly out of breath, and seized her wrist, forcing her to turn around. 'I just didn't expect you to ask, that's all. You never have.'

Constance fixed her with a stare. She seemed to want to say something, unable to conjure the words. For a moment they stared intensely at each other, something intangible holding back communication. Constance looked down at the hand resting on her wrist, as though it were some volatile insect which might inflict pain, were she to aggravate it. It reminded Imogen of the time she'd observed a man daring to flirt with Constance, attempting to woo her with such temptations as jetting off to the south of France, and dinner for two at the best restaurants in London. Constance had looked surprised - amused, even, as if she enjoyed building him up for his inevitable fall. He'd had his hand on her arm, and Constance had said something to him which Imogen had assumed – as she'd paused from stacking chairs to observe the strange scenario – had encouraged him**. **But when Imogen looked back a second later he'd fallen with a thud onto the floor in an undignified mass, his chair having disappeared beneath him, with Constance asking in her characteristically unfazed humour, 'Mr Stevens, what on _earth_ are you doing down there?'

Imogen released her grip, watching Constance until she disappeared from view.


	3. Forces

_Beware – there are one or two expletives in this one… Not for the over-sensitive!_

_I don't own the characters. _

**Chapter 3 – Forces **

Being a non-witch, and therefore favouring to spend her weekends outside of the school's confines, Imogen tended to return home to the flat she rented with Serge in a town about ten miles from the school. The Saturday afternoon sunshine was fading and, having caught her usual train from the village, Imogen was now hurtling through the town on her bicycle, complete with rucksack and white knuckles, towards the small apartment complex off the marketplace. Glancing up at the Town Hall clock, its chimes groaning three p.m., she estimated that she had approximately forty five minutes in which to get her essentials together before Serge returned home from the Scouts' trip he'd been supervising during the week. Imogen had relatively few personal items (not being the sentimental type), most of which were clothes, and she'd planned to ask Serge to dispose of any which wouldn't fit into her rucksack via a text message after she'd gone.

She felt a wave of excitement as she thought of Cackle's becoming her home, hoping she might be better accepted by her colleagues if she was a more permanent fixture. She had promised herself, too, that she would make a conscious effort to read up on magic, so that she had at least some understanding of the more complicated staffroom discussions about the intricacies of bindweed and whether or not newts eyes had an intoxicating effect if ground down and inhaled. And perhaps she would even set herself the project of finding out where the words of the more popular spells actually originated from…

Skipping expertly off her bike as she rounded the corner to the wrought iron gates, she swiped her key fob past the sensor and a mechanical voice permitted her to enter as the gates edged open at their usual snail pace. She passed quickly across the courtyard, into the building and up the communal stairway, letting herself into the flat and immediately busying herself with grabbing this from the clothes horse and that from the bathroom cabinet.

Just as she turned to nip into the bedroom, her heart leapt as she ran straight into Serge.

'Bloody hell,' Imogen gasped, putting a hand on her chest, 'What the hell are you doing home?'

He looked at her with anguish in his eyes, padding across to the kitchen and pouring whiskey into a small glass.

'I didn't go to camp this week,' he said. 'I couldn't face it.'

Imogen surveyed the bombsite that had been her home and grimaced at the stacks of plates encrusted with several days' worth of food. Dirty clothes were discarded on the floor by the washing machine and the bottle of the aforementioned whiskey, which had been full only a week ago, was almost empty.

Serge walked back out onto the landing, ice cubes clinking against the sides of his glass.

'Are you leaving me?' he said, his Canadian drawl full of a sadness she had never before associated with him. Imogen relented, her instinctive compassion taking over.

'It's not working, Serge,' she said, gently 'You know it's not.'

'But we can make it –'

'No, we can't. Can you move please – I need to get to the bedroom.'

'Immy, please don't leave me.'

She was forced to look up to his eyes and saw that they were shot with tears. Oh _God_, she thought. _This is so hard_. She had been through break-ups before but they had been during her student years, and everything back then had seemed so much more trivial. This was real life, and she was actually breaking someone's heart.

Imogen walked past him into the neutral warmth of the bedroom, the scent of new carpet still fresh in the air. Pulling open drawers she grabbed various pieces of underwear, unable to bring herself to look at the unmade bed. Perhaps she was making a terrible mistake, she thought, watching Serge in her peripheral vision, his bathrobe tied loosely at the waist. They'd talked about children, marriage, moving to Canada... She grabbed a bottle of her favourite perfume and thrust it into the depths of her rapidly expanding rucksack. _This time one month ago, you spent a day perusing jewellery shop windows for an engagement ring!_ she reminded herself. _What's changed?_

'What's changed, Immy?' His reflection of her thoughts caused her to jump. His tone was flat, almost uninterested. 'Is there someone else?'

_Someone Else_ flickered though her mind and she felt the usual onslaught of weakness running through her abdomen.

'No,' she said. 'Of course there isn't.'

'Not convinced,' he said from the doorway. As Imogen caught his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors, the expression on his face made her feel momentarily anxious.

'There isn't anyone else,' she pleaded, vehemently, spinning around to look at him. 'OK? I haven't met anyone else, and I'm not seeing anyone else. All I have is my job. But it's my life and I love it. And whilst I love it as much as I do, there just isn't room for anyone else. Do you see?'

She waited. She couldn't help but feel quite satisfied with her explanation.

'You love a bunch of freaks more than me.'

'_Freaks_?' Imogen shrilled, her heart pumping with frustrated rage, thrusting a pair of jeans onto the bed. 'How dare you call them freaks! They're my colleagues, my friends – I don't talk about flipping Tin Can and Bounce or whatever their bloody names are like that. How fucking _dare_ you!'

Clutching the rucksack she made a move for the door when he grabbed her wrists, holding them in a vice-like grip and thrusting her against the wall with a thud that made her feel sick. His face, prickled with several days' worth of stubble, was close to hers and his breath smelt of the whiskey.

'This is the not the end of it, Immy,' the use of her nickname under such circumstances sent a shudder through her whole being. 'You're not chewing me up, spitting me out and pissing on me for some twisted fantasy you have about becoming a…'

'Becoming a _what_?' she hissed, her face turned away from him with her cheek against the coolness of the wall.

'You _know_ what.' Serge seized her chin, forcing her face to turn towards his. Shaking with fear, the tears stinging her eyes, Imogen felt an overwhelming urge to fight back. Summoning up all her strength, she pushed as hard as she could in an attempt to shift his heavy weight away from her, aware of the searing pain in her wrists as she pushed.

And as light as a feather, Serge flew across the bedroom - all ten feet of it – and crashed heavily into the wardrobe door so that the mirror cracked as he slid to the floor. Groaning, he struggled to push himself up from the carpet.

Imogen stared unblinking at Serge, her better nature coercing her to help him.

_No_, said something inside her head. _Get out_.

Flinging the rucksack over one shoulder she darted towards the door, pulling it so hard as she fled that it bounced between its frame and the landing wall, plaster crumbling to the carpet. As she reached the courtyard the mechanical gate was just closing after someone else and she dashed across the cobbles to squeeze through, pausing to yank the rucksack after her.

Out on the busy main road she leant breathlessly against the wall of the apartment block and let the gasping sobs flow. Her wrists were red and tender, and she massaged them gently as she took time to steady her breathing. Aware that people were looking at her in bemusement, she straightened up and...

Constance?

No - it can't possibly have been her… She quickly ran to the corner around which she had seen the tall figure in black disappear, her eyes scanning the bustling marketplace in the late afternoon sunshine.

It _can't_ have been her...

The forgotten tears were becoming sticky on her cheeks. _Get a grip, Imogen! What would she be doing in town?_ It was the weekend - she'd be at the school, like she always was. She had everything she needed there and certainly didn't have time for what she would probably call "self-indulgent shopping trips"!

Imogen shook the illusion from her mind, grabbing her bike from where she had left it against the gate. Peering up one last time to her old bedroom window, now distorted by the orange glare of the sun, she satisfied herself that Serge was not watching her, and went to collect her car from the parking bays alongside the flats.


	4. Notes & Notice Boards

**Chapter 4 – Notes & Noticeboards**

Amelia Cackle pressed the corners of the letter down on the table so that it didn't spring back into its former, folded self. Through the horn-rimmed spectacles which perched on the end of her nose, she read the letter several times. There were relatively few words on the expensive parchment, the matching envelope of which had broadcast the identity of the sender as soon as she had clocked it waiting for her on her desk. The slanting, serpentine letters spelling out "_Strictly Private & Confidential – Miss A Cackle_" were in two tones of navy blue, as though they had been scrawled with something rather more traditional than a biro, and the envelope had been sealed with red wax displaying the emblem of a pentagram.

Folding the letter and returning it to the envelope, Amelia locked it in her desk drawer, patting her pocket as she dropped the key inside. With her elbows on the desk she clasped her hands and rested her chin on her knuckles.

'Constance,' she said, into the empty room. Immediately the deputy headmistress materialised in the seat to the side of Amelia's desk. 'Have you been there all the time?' And then, as if doubting her own sanity, she smiled: 'Or do I really need to ask?'

Constance tapped her nails on the desk, looking expectantly from the direction of the drawer to the headmistress. Removing her spectacles, Amelia leant back in her chair and took a deep breath before she spoke.

'You know this isn't the sort of thing I ought to condone, Constance. I need to know I can trust you – implicitly – not to do anything unprofessional.' Her tone was as serious as that she usually reserved for the rare pupils who pushed the boundaries to the point of suspension. As Constance opened her mouth to protest, Amelia raised a finger to silence her. 'This is, after all,' she leant forward on the desk, 'Veering dangerously close to the edge. And I still don't understand why your note is so brief – and why you couldn't speak to me directly about it.'

'I can't tell you everything, not yet,' Constance whispered, glancing nervously towards the door which Amelia had left ajar. 'And do you honestly think the risk of something like this spreading like pondweed around the school is worth taking? A letter can be disposed of, but an overheard conversation cannot. I trust you will dispose of it?'

Amelia opened the drawer and watched as the letter vanished into a glittering puff of white smoke. 'In that case,' she said, chewing absentmindedly on the arm of her spectacles, 'There is little I can do but suggest that you carry on as normally as possible and don't draw attention to yourself – or anyone else, for that matter. You know what sort of trouble you lay yourself open to you if you get caught. And then of course…'

'And _what_?' Constance caressed her brow, seemingly more resigned to the difficulty of her situation than concerned by further obstacles.

Amelia pushed herself up from her chair, sliding her glasses back to their usual position as headband. 'Just be careful, Constance. Don't become too attached. And more to the point, don't let anybody become too attached to you.'

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

To Imogen's dismay, the rota confirmed that it was her turn for breakfast duty. Still shaken from her weekend experience, she slipped on her long-sleeved, black Lycra running jacket – which was thin enough to wear throughout the day whilst covering her fading wounds – and hoped not to raise question.

The girls, weary from too much rest over the weekend as they always were on Mondays, seemed to float around the dining hall in a state of auto-pilot, scraping discarded remnants of porridge into the waste basin and nonchalantly stacking their plates in a single meandering tower, which Imogen had to frequently realign in order to avoid a mass toppling.

As she surveyed the sleepy pupils with their ties askew, Imogen felt a sudden wave of pleasure at the sense of security the school gave her. It was to be her home now. The kindly Amelia had been more than understanding: it was, after all, only an extra couple of nights a week, she'd said, and whilst Imogen was absent her room was empty, so it made sense to make use of it. And as a token of her gratitude, Imogen had offered to help with any non-PE orientated extra curricular activities, which Amelia had agreed to think on and promised to get back to her with ideas.

Assembly followed breakfast, and the teachers took their usual seats at either side of the stage as Miss Cackle delivered the weekly newsletter and reminded pupils of the mortal dangers of flying in the corridors. Imogen, taking in barely a word of the sermon, observed Constance who remained perfectly still and bolt upright with her hands clasped in her lap and her gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. Although Imogen had hoped to detect anything in her colleague's behaviour which might confirm that she had indeed been present in the town at the weekend, Imogen knew her better than that. There was no reading Constance. If you wanted to know, you had to ask – and even then you were unlikely to get a straight answer. Clearly sensing that she was being scrutinised, Constance shot a glance to Imogen, who looked nervously away. The steely potions mistress didn't back down when it came to eye contact - and Imogen didn't have the nerve to challenge her.

Morning break loomed and brought with it with dreary, spitting rain clouds. Imogen released her netball class ten minutes early (much to the raucous delight of the fourth years) and decided to see if she could snatch a few minutes with Constance before the staffroom became the usual whirlwind of what Imogen liked to call _Three Eccentric Women and a PE Teacher_.

As she neared the potions lab she could hear Miss Hardbroom behind the closed door, barking orders for the next lesson as the bell rang out. Chairs scraped across the floor and books were shoved into satchels as Imogen sought refuge in the contents of the notice board. She did her best impression of thoughtful concentration as the door crashed open and a stampede of first years bowled into the corridor, dispersing in various directions.

'And if _any_ of you leave my classroom in that manner again, you will _all_ produce five hundred lines – _I must savour every second of lessons with my beloved potions mistress_!'

The icy words instantly bred decorum among the girls, who were silenced by this unpleasant proposal and slowed their eager walking paces to more becoming strolls.

Imogen felt a surge of admiration for the deputy headmistress's command of the girls, as she dared to peer into the room. Constance finished arranging papers on her desk and turned quickly to head for the door. Darting out of sight just in time, Imogen returned to the notice board as Constance emerged, closing the door behind her, a large, purple leather-bound book clasped against her chest.

'Good morning, Miss Drill,' she said coldly, locking the door and barely looking at her colleague. By the time Imogen managed to return a mumbled greeting, Constance was already sweeping past her towards the staffroom.

'Did you have a good weekend?' Imogen called after her. She silently kicked herself. It had sounded entirely unnatural. When had they _ever_ asked about each other's weekends? Pausing in the corridor, Constance spun round to face her colleague.

'Yes… thank you, Miss Drill. And you?' The question seemed more obligatory than inquisitive.

'Yes – I did. Well, no… I didn't actually.'

Constance hesitated, seemingly conscious that the girls were still in the vicinity and were likely to be eavesdropping.

'If there is something you would like to talk about, Miss Drill, you know where to find me.'

And with that less than encouraging invitation, Constance turned again and disappeared in the direction of the staffroom. Imogen heaved a sigh and leant against the wall, her head lolling back as she stared at the ceiling.

'You _idiot_!' She hissed to herself.

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

'I think we need to do something to cheer her up,' Said Amelia, peering over the top of her spectacles at her staff. 'Imogen has had a difficult time of late, and I for one think we could all do with something to look forward to. The summer term is always the longest what with deadlines and exams. I say we treat ourselves whilst officially welcoming Imogen to the fold.'

'Ooh!' Davina gushed, bouncing quickly up and down on the balls of her feet, much to Constance's irritation. 'You mean a day trip to Alton Towers, or Go Ape?' She was lost in her own little world of imaginative mayhem as Constance huffed and rolled her eyes.

'If you must insist on something, Headmistress – and I admit I am not _wholly_ opposed on this occasion,' Amelia choked on her biscuit at this, 'Then can I ask that we at least do something relatively sedate, and within the confines of the school?'

'What are you suggesting, Miss Hardbroom?'

Constance stalked thoughtfully around the room, a smirk spreading across her lips. 'I think a simple dinner is as enjoyable an event as any. We could ask Mrs Tapioca to hone her extra-special culinary skills. And perhaps we could even stretch to a little wine?'

Davina deflated before their eyes as her dreams of being suspended over a ravine by harnesses frittered away. 'Are you sure that's a good idea, Constance, after last time?' She trailed into silence as she dared to confront the potions mistress. Constance fixed her with her most withering glare and leant in to deliver her retort.

'_Last time_, Davina, was a very _long_ time ago - the details of which should have been eradicated from everybody's memories. I trust you are not going to be divulging the intricacies of that particular – _episode_ – to Miss Drill?'

Davina, visibly shaken, caressed the lace of her gloves manically between her fingertips. 'No, no, Constance, no. Not a word.' Constance narrowed her eyes as if to confirm the warning. In an attempt to change the subject, Davina pointed shakily at the purple book which Constance was clasping territorially against her chest.

'Can I ask what you are reading, Constance?'

'No, Miss Bat, you cannot,' and with that she whipped her gaze back to the headmistress, who was half perched on her desk, attempting to fish a chunk of biscuit out from the bottom of her teacup. Amelia concentrated on this as she spoke.

'Good... that's settled then… I will liaise with Mrs Tapioca. She's less likely to spit in the food if I deal with it, Constance.'


	5. Let Them Eat Beef!

_One for the weekend. _

_I don't own the characters. _

_Thanks to all who have reviewed so far! _

**Chapter 5 – Let Them Eat Beef!**

Saturday evening came, and Imogen, sitting at her dressing table in front of the large, three-pane mirror, was satisfied with her appearance. When the occasion permitted, she was more than adept in applying varying shades of eyeshadow to emphasise the contours of her aqueous blue-green eyes. Raising her eyebrows she leant towards the mirror, inspecting her handywork. _Perfect_, she thought, turning her face this way and that. With the help of a little wax she smoothed her cropped, blonde hair at the sides, and added definition to the front.

Reaching into the sequin-studded trinket box she had bought from Paperchase as a student, Imogen took out a pair of amethyst droplet earrings, hooking them gently though the pierced holes in her earlobes which had been her parents' way of rewarding her for learning to swim as a child. She watched as the purple of the gemstones sparkled in the lamplight, reminding her of the purple book that Constance been seen clutching so protectively over the past few days. Davina had asked Imogen if she happened to know what it was, as Davina daren't ask Constance herself, and Imogen, with deepening curiosity, had assured her colleague that she was not alone in her ignorance.

Spritzing a small amount of Dior's _J'adore_ on her wrists and across her collarbone, she sighed, inhaling the heady tones of the musky scent. _Forget it_, she thought. _Probably nothing of any interest_. And, of course, there was little to no chance of the incorruptible Constance Hardbroom being involved in anything remotely controversial…

Imogen got to her feet and let the white silk dressing gown she had been wearing over her underwear slip from her shoulders to a ghostly heap on the floor. She stepped into her skirt: a floor-length, figure-hugging satin fishtail that she saved for best. Then she wrapped the matching whalebone bodice around her, tensing her stomach muscles as she laced the ribbons down the front.

Opening her wardrobe, she surveyed herself in the full-length mirror on the inside of the door. Her shoulders and arms were her favourite asset – toned and tinged with a healthy hue as a result of the summer sun. She ran her fingers along the lace of the bodice, her head tilted to one side as she realised with a skip of the heart that she was probably completely overdressed for the occasion. Still, it was either this or sports gear and jeans - and it was too late to reconsider.

Raising her hand to her shoulder so that the plumped flesh of her forearm was displayed in the mirror, she was satisfied that what little was left of the bruises had been disguised well by a little powder and concealer.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Downstairs, Imogen paused outside the staffroom door, her eyes searching the floor as she listened. Soft chatter confirmed that they were all in there. Taking a deep breath, she gently pushed the door and popped her head around.

_Oh God!_ she thought.

The other three teachers were dressed in much the same clothes that they wore to work – the only differences being that Amelia was enveloped by a black shawl decorated sparsely with sequins, and Constance wore a dress which seemed to be the same heavy satin as Imogen's skirt, with her hair loose. They were already seated around the table, which had been beautifully laid with two embroidered linen table-cloths – a saffron one which covered the whole table, on top of which was a maroon cloth set at an angle, so that the corners of the saffron cloth were exposed. At each place was a rolled linen napkin and linen placemats surrounded by enough cutlery for several courses, along with various drinking glasses. In the middle of the table was a beautifully complex candle holder with a tall, narrow stem and what seemed to Imogen like hundreds of candles twinkling at the top. Amelia and Davina were sitting opposite each other along the length of the table. Constance was at the furthest end, and Imogen's place, set nearest the fire, was opposite her.

'Well, come on then,' Amelia grinned. 'Let's see the rest of you!'

The remainder of Imogen followed as she stepped sheepishly into the room, hunched slightly with her fingers entwined behind her back. She bit her lip.

'I feel a bit – overdressed,'

Amelia's laughter rang out as she rose to put an arm around her colleague's shoulders, ushering her to her seat.

'Don't be ridiculous, Imogen. You look absolutely stunning. Doesn't she, ladies?'

Davina applauded with rapid claps and omitted flattering noises, glancing between Imogen and Constance as if to seek the latter's approval. Imogen, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she sat down, couldn't quite bring herself to look at Constance; but she knew the deputy headmistress was neither looking at her nor smiling.

_Probably thinks I look a complete tart!_ Imogen thought to herself.

'Well,' Amelia continued, picking up a dusty bottle of red wine and pouring them each equal measures. 'I propose we get the evening going with a spot of _Châteauneuf du Pape_ while we wait for the lovely food to arrive, and toast Miss Drill's – I don't know – new living arrangements?!'

Imogen blushed, and Davina thrust her glass into the air, spilling some wine as she squealed: 'To new beginnings!'

'New beginnings.' They chorused.

Imogen took a large mouthful of wine, feeling the instant kick of the alcohol. Her eyes inadvertently met Constance's, who was watching her intently over the top of her own glass.

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

'And then _I_ said: "What you wear at the weekend is of no concern of mine, Sir – but I'll thank you to leave my washing line alone!"'

The three of them rolled with laughter at Davina's anecdote, the advanced stages of intoxication underway. Amelia banged the table with her palm, and Imogen choked on the mouthful she had just taken. Even Constance hadn't managed to stifle a laugh. Imogen noticed that on the rare occasions that Constance did laugh, it was suppressed, as though she were self-conscious about letting her guard down in front of other people. There was no abandonment, like when Amelia howled and tears ran down her cheeks, or when Davina giggled until she doubled over in abdominal pain. Imogen was touched to see her colleague relax.

The evening passed and the plates, which had been adorned with the most fabulous Beef Wellington and vegetable trimmings that Imogen had ever tasted, were taken away and replaced by small ceramic pots of crème brûlée. Amelia made a dive for the remainder of the wine, Constance instantly putting a hand over her empty glass.

'Not drinking much tonight, Constance?'

'No thank you, Amelia. I'd like to keep a clear head for tomorrow.'

'But tomorrow's Sunday,' Davina gushed.

'Indeed. Which is the day before the school week begins. I like to utilise Sundays to prepare.'

'But it's _Sunday_,' Davina lolled forward on the table slightly, her tone exasperated. 'Why don't you "utilise" it as a day off?'

'Leave it, Davina – if she doesn't want to drink she doesn't want to drink. Imogen?' With a menacing smirk on her face, Amelia waved the bottle at her colleague, who was already feeling slightly more than woosey. 'Go _on_ - just a little drop!'

'The thing is,' Davina whispered, now leaning towards Imogen as Amelia continued to pour despite Imogen's protestations, 'Constance has to be careful how much she drinks because -'

'Davina!'

'Constance, I think it's only fair that Imogen -'

'Shut _up_, woman!' Constance shot up out of her seat, trembling with rage. 'Don't you _ever_ know when to stop?!' and, with what looked to Imogen like the beginnings of tears in her eyes, she folded her arms and vanished.

'What the _hell_ was all that about?' Imogen glared at Davina, who grabbed her dessert from the table and retreated sulkily into the cupboard. Before long, the sound of her spooning crème brûlée into her mouth like it was the last scrap of food available to man emanated from inside.

Amelia released a heavy sigh and let her head drop onto the table. Only twenty nine months, five days and seventeen hours until retirement.


	6. Curiosities

_I don't own the characters and am not making any money out of my efforts…_

**Chapter 6 – Curiosities**

With Amelia seemingly having dropped off (or knocked herself out) on the table, and Davina wailing the school's anthem from the sanctuary of the stationery cupboard, Imogen pushed herself up from the table and decided to go in search of Constance.

As she swung the staffroom door open with more force than she'd intended, the effect of the alcohol hit her. Her head swam as she squinted to focus on the way forward, her fingertips brushing the wall in an attempt not to flail from one side of the darkened corridor to the other.

As she turned up the stairs she spotted a figure in mid-descent coming towards her. _Bugger_, she thought, recognising Mildred Hubble in her billowing nightgown, her long plaits untied in frizzy bunches.

'Hello, Miss Drill…' she said, curiously, holding up her lighted candle to illuminate the gym mistress.

'What are you doing out of bed?' Imogen asked, unable to improve on a semi-drunken slur.

'Are you - all _right_, Miss?'

'I'm fine. I said what are you doing out of bed, Mildred Hubble?'

'Erm – I couldn't sleep. So I thought I'd see if I could get a book from the library. Is that OK, Miss?'

Imogen forcefully straightened herself up, yanking the sides of her bodice down for fear of exposing any midriff. 'Hmm s'pose so. You get back to bed mind – Miss Hardbroom'll take you out if she catches you out of bed.'

Mildred's brow furrowed in puzzlement as she surveyed Imogen closely. 'Are you _sure_ you're OK, Miss Drill?'

Imogen jabbed a limp finger in her pupil's direction. 'Mildred, don't ask questions. Go to bed and get your book.'

'Or the other way around,' Mildred muttered as she padded away down the remaining stairs, turning back every now and then to watch the teacher fumbling along.

As Imogen reached the top, a thought took hold of her. Looking around to where Mildred was disappearing like a ghostly figure into the darkness, she called after her.

'Mildred?' Mildred turned around, thoughtfully chewing on the end of her hair. 'Come here a minute, will you?'

Mildred padded back, frowning as she contemplated the trouble she might be in.

'I need your help,'

'Do you want me to get you a bucket, Miss?'

'No!' Imogen said, bending towards Mildred and leaning her palms on her thighs as she considered how best to word her request. 'No – listen. Miss Hardbroom has something in the potions lab. I need it.'

Mildred sniffed.

'How much have you had to -'

'_Don't _ask questions, Mildred.' Imogen swayed and steadied herself against the wall. 'Look – all you have to do is nip in and let me know if there is a big purple book in there. That's if she's not in there herself, obviously. She might be after… well, it doesn't matter. Can you do that for me?'

Mildred's troubled eyes searched for the answer in the middle distance.

'I'm not sure… why can't you just –'

'Mildred! This is _really_ important. I'm not asking you to steal it – just let me know what it is. You can always say you needed to refer to it for revision. What excuse would I have to be in there?'

'OK,' Mildred mumbled, uncertainty in her voice. 'But it's probably locked.'

'Well we can at least go and see. Come on!'

The pair of them walked to the potions lab in silence, scanning every nook and cranny for the shadowy figure that both pupils and teachers alike dreaded running into when they weren't supposed to be somewhere. Mildred was the first to reach the door of the lab and, pressing her ear to the cool wood, held her breath as she listened.

'I don't think she's in there,' she said, finally. She took the icy brass doorknob in her hand, twisting it as noiselessly as she could. Applying a little force, the door flatly refused to budge. She looked up at her gym mistress who was watching, expectantly. 'Sorry, Miss – it's locked.'

'Can't you _magic_ it open?' Miss Drill's eyes flashed desperately as she glanced around the corridor.

'That would be against the Witches' –'

'Stuff the Witches' Code!' Imogen interjected, grabbing hold of the handle herself and giving it a firm twist. And as the door flew open, she too flew in with it, stumbling in the most ungainly fashion over a desk like an amateur trying unsuccessfully to mount a horse.

'Oh my God!' Mildred gasped, looking between Imogen and the door. 'Miss Drill – are you all right? How on earth did you – '

'I'm fine, Mildred,' Imogen clambered to her feet and brushed the dust from her skirt, 'You must have unlocked it.'

'I didn't, Miss, I promise it was locked – there was no way it could have –'

'So you must have been twisting the handle the wrong way. Turn the lights on, will you? I can't see in pure candlelight.'

With a flick of Mildred's wrist, the room was bathed in an instant light which caused them both to squint against the sudden glare. Imogen made for the desk at the front and tried its drawers, but each of them was locked. She fleetingly considered asking Mildred to "magic" them open but then thought better of it. _Poor girl_, she thought, watching the pupil standing nervously by the classroom door, her feet bare and doubtless frozen against the concrete floor. _All she'd wanted to do was read a book to get herself off to sleep, and before she knew it she'd been coerced __into staff sculduggery_!

'Miss Drill, I really think we should –'

'I don't believe this!'

Mildred turned her gaze to the teacher, who was staring incredulously at something Mildred couldn't see.

'I've just tried to open this once,' she continued, pointing into a drawer. 'It was locked fast – no getting into it whatsoever. And now look!' Mildred padded over and surveyed the contents of the drawer. There were some odds and ends of stationery, an out of date register from several years ago and a large, leather-bound purple book with silver-edged pages. Imogen was pointing at the book's title. 'What on earth does that say?'

She saw Mildred's face flush with alarm as the young witch peered down at the book.

'I – I can't tell you, Miss,'

'What do you mean, you can't tell me?' Miss Drill's voice was becoming unusually shrill.

Mildred swallowed. 'It's written in Albionish. I'm not allowed to tell you.'

'Why _not_?'

'Because witches aren't allowed to translate Albionish into English or any other language for non-witches. It's against rule number seventeen… of the Witches' Code.' Mildred trailed off, sadly. Noticing her teacher's uncharacteristic expression of irritation, she continued. 'Whatever it is, Miss, it's not something we should have found – and it's _definitely_ not something you should ask Miss Hardbroom about. Why she has it, I don't know. But if she finds out we've been here…'

Imogen's fingertips massaged her throbbing forehead. She felt suddenly conscious that she was dolled up like she was due to put in an appearance at the Oscars and – worse still – was rummaging through Miss Hardbroom's things with fourteen-year-old Mildred as her reluctant co-conspirator. She wondered if alcohol fuelled curiosity – after all, it really wasn't any of her business to call Constance's reading material into question.

Imogen observed the young witch, whose eyes were weary and concerned. Remembering that Constance had disappeared and could be absolutely anywhere just now, she took pity on her.

'Look, Mildred – I'm sorry about all this,' she said, wearily. 'You get off to bed. And let's try and pretend this ever happened.'

Mildred smiled unhappily and made for the door.

'Don't worry, Miss. I won't tell anyone. But if I were you I'd get out of here before – well, before you know what.'

Imogen nodded and watched Mildred disappear out of sight.

Satisfied that she wouldn't come back, she turned her gaze again to the heavy volume which lay motionlessly in the drawer. She ran her finger along the indecipherable writing, which had been embroidered on a piece of metallic fabric affixed to the front. At the centre of the fabric was a pentagram, and the letters, as she supposed them to be, were unfamiliar symbols which were not recognisable to her at all.

Glancing towards the dark doorway, adrenaline kicking in, Imogen decided to take her chance and borrow the book – just for the night, of course. She hadn't been able to ignore a vague but nagging feeling that it had something to do with the events of the previous weekend, and knowing what a worrier Mildred was, she suspected it probably wasn't as controversial as she'd assumed, and surely _someone_ would help her to translate it… but as she placed both her hands on the book, its surface became ice cold and vanished.

The suddenly frosty air pricked the goose bumps on her arms and Imogen quickly shut the drawer, rubbing her bare arms, her eyes surveying the room.

'OK,' she whispered into the empty room. 'I get the hint…'


	7. Dungeons & Dragons

**Chapter 7 – Dungeons & Dragons**

The incident with the book played on Imogen's mind for various reasons as she continued on her way from the potions lab to find Constance.

Firstly, Constance was not a ghost – when she disappeared, she was still present. There was no change in room temperature and no ghostly sensation. If you happened to cross paths with her, you would collide with her invisible form – the shock of which being something that took some time to recover from.

Secondly, if, as Mildred had hinted, the book was something sinister, then perhaps an equally sinister force was controlling it, enabling it to disappear from the grasp of a non-witch before Imogen had even picked it up.

Thirdly, if Constance _did_ know she had attempted to steal the book, she might react very badly to Imogen on their next meeting.

The only way to find out if this was to be the case was to find the potions mistress and gauge her reaction.

Having gently rapped on Constance's bedroom door to be greeted only by silence, Imogen decided to venture into the basement. She referred to it thus whilst the staff and pupils nicknamed it the "Dungeon", and although its history of satanic rituals and beheadings leant itself better to the latter term, Imogen preferred to avoid thoughts of macabre activities taking place in what was now her home.

Making her way down the twisted staircase, the air increasingly chilly around her bare shoulders, Imogen groped her way along the grainy walls of the corridor towards the door at the end. Opening it slightly, she peered in to see Constance sitting at a table with her back to the door, a candle glowing softly in front of her. Her head rested on her entwined fingers as though she were praying. Imogen had often wondered just who it was that witches prayed to and had hoped it was not, as her grandfather would have jokingly said, "_Old Nick_".

'Do you intend to come in, Imogen, or are you there merely to exacerbate the draught?'

Closing the door behind her, Imogen walked over to Constance and dropped onto the bench beside her colleague, using her arms as a pillow on the table on which to rest her head.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Realising she must have dropped off, Imogen woke to see Constance still beside her, a bottle of red wine and two glasses having materialised on the table. As she raised her drowsy head, Imogen reached for the full glass in front of her. She wondered if she should mention anything about the book – but if Constance had been unaware of the earlier happenings she would be opening a whole new can of worms. So she decided that the best course of action was to behave as normally as possible and see if the usually unreadable potions mistress gave anything away.

'So,' Imogen began, 'That – altercation – with Davina. Was it anything I should know about?'

Constance's eyes flashed at her colleague's question. 'Why should you need to know about it? So you and Miss Bat have something else to talk about when I'm not around?'

Imogen was insulted. 'No! Why on earth should I want to talk about you behind your back?' Constance shrugged and Imogen had a mental image of the vulnerable but defiant teenager she may once have been.

'Well _don't_ you?' Constance probed.

'No, Constance, I don't. And neither do the others. I only asked because you were obviously upset and believe it or not I don't like to see you upset.'

'You're drunk, Miss Drill.' said Constance, looking at Imogen's wineglass which was already in need of a top-up.

Imogen peered into the glass and swished the contents around so that a delightful aroma was released.

'Well, maybe a bit,' she admitted. 'And don't change the subject. If I _am_ then I'll forget everything you tell me. So you might as well make the most of it.'

Constance shifted uncomfortably in her seat, pouring Imogen some more wine.

'I'm placing my trust in you that not a single word of this goes any further,' she warned.

'Not a word.' promised Imogen. The flame of the candle flickered with a sudden draft, causing her to shudder. From nowhere a black chiffon wrap appeared in Constance's hand, which she gave to Imogen.

'I don't suppose you have ever tried one of Miss Bat's Mongolian cocktails?'

Imogen pulled a face as she enveloped herself in the wrap.

'What?! No – and I can't think of anything less appetising at the moment,'

'Well – don't. I don't think she would dare make them again, especially after the ticking off she received from Amelia last time. They have special properties, you see – honesty-inducing properties.'

Imogen frowned, tilting her head, and Constance signed impatiently at her lack of comprehension.

'Miss Bat said she found me incredibly difficult to get on with when I started here. She doesn't like people who won't endure her fussing, you see. She has the mind of a child, which is why she feels comfortable around the girls. And she likes people who make her feel safe and secure and molly-coddled. But this is the adult world, Miss Drill, and I have never been inclined to tread on eggshells or make exceptions for overly-sensitive people. All I ask is that adults behave as adults and set an example to the pupils.'

Imogen took another mouthful of wine as Constance continued.

'She thought it would be a good idea to get me to "loosen up a bit". So, at the end of the winter term of my third year here – bearing in mind I was still relatively young at the time – Miss Bat concocted a mixture she had picked up in Mongolia and suggested I try some. I asked her what it was, and she said it was a new form of wide awake potion which didn't cause the palpitations that the existing one does. So, I had a glass – which I drank rather quickly, and…'

'And…?' Imogen stared, open mouthed.

'Well,' Constance hesitated, 'It wasn't quite what she said it was – the taste was absolutely divine so there was no way of drinking it slowly. And as for the effects…' Constance drew in her breath.

'Go on...' Imogen said. Constance regarded the hand which had been placed on her arm with much the same caution as she had done on the mountainside. Imogen immediately removed it, muttering apologies.

'Apart from making one dreadfully inebriated, it forces the kind of honesty which usually only exists within the mind.'

'You mean – it makes you say the sorts of things you would normally only think?'

Constance nodded, slowly. 'Rather it makes you tell people precisely _what_ you think of them. As I'm sure you can imagine, my thoughts regarding Miss Bat were not entirely complimentary, and given that I included words such as capricious, gullible and witless, my little outburst wasn't conducive to a long-term friendship.'

'Ah…'

'And I stupidly told Miss Cackle that she had been more of a mother to me than my own ever had been, which of course she took as her cue to volunteer superfluous advice for the following fourteen years.'

Imogen resisted the urge to ask Constance about her mother. 'And what about the inebriation?'

'After the altercation with Miss Bat, I went outside for some air. The sudden blast of cold knocked me completely off balance, I collapsed, and the next thing I knew Miss Cackle had dragged me into the toilets where I was profusely sick for the following hour and a half!'

Imogen grinned.

'I can't imagine you getting wasted.'

'Don't say it like it's something trivial!' Constance snapped, altering her voice to a whisper as she admitted: 'I had sick in my hair!'

Imogen tensed her lips to suppress a laugh.

'We've all done things like that, Constance.'

'Ruined working relationships after one drink? All I can say is thank goodness none of the girls were there to see it - I'm supposed to be a role model for them and I'm utterly ashamed of myself.'

'I think it might be about time you forgot about it,' Imogen bit her lip as she spoke, unsure if it was the best course of action.

'Miss Bat has never let me forget it.'

'Oh, come on, Constance – she wanted the truth and she got it. That's nothing less than she deserved.' Imogen paused, staring down into her remaining wine. 'I wonder what you would have said about me.'

Constance's eyes gleamed in the candlelight. 'Well, we'll never know now, will we?'

In an attempt to hide her disappointment, Imogen returned to the subject with a story of her own.

'If it's any consolation, when I was a student I walked into a sheet glass window on my way out of a nightclub. Split my bottom lip and concussed myself. Arriving home courtesy of the Old Bill wasn't dignified, I can tell you.'

The merest smile flickered across Constance's lips, and Imogen felt a flutter in her stomach. Raising her hand, she stroked the loose wavy hair away from Constance's face and behind her shoulder. The potions mistress looked a little taken aback, and Imogen waited for the inevitable rebuff – which, strangely, didn't come.

'I'm glad you told me about it.' Imogen whispered, her head giddy with wine.

'Because?'

'Because… it makes me feel like I know you… a bit better… and…' And with a mixture of nausea and overwhelming tiredness, Imogen slid from the bench into a heap of satin and flesh on the cold stone floor.

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

The morning light crept through the leaded windows of Imogen's room. As she stirred she was bewildered as to why the curtains were still open. She ran a hand along her side, the satin feeling met by her fingertips confirming that she was still in her clothes from the night before. Sitting up suddenly, her head reverberated with pain as though her brain were bouncing around inside her skull.

'Oh _God_!' she groaned. 'Bloody wine…'

Grimacing with hungover agony, Imogen heaved herself up from the bed and made her way delicately into the bathroom. The light hurt her eyes, and she sat on the side of the bath for a few minutes with her head hanging in her knees and her knuckles grazing the rug. She didn't feel sick, fortunately - just incredibly sorry for herself and confused about the events which had led to her being unceremoniously plonked on top of her bedclothes.

Holding onto the side of the basin she pulled herself to her feet and stared into the mirror. Yesterday's makeup was encrusted around her eyes, and the insides of her lips were stained by the wine. Sticking her tongue out as far as it would go, she omitted a sound usually produced by medical patients when a doctor checks the airways for infection. It was as deep burgundy as the velvet of her bedroom curtains. Then she barred her teeth – they too were stained. "Bluetooth", as she'd heard one of the fifth years refer to it when recounting a story of a drunken aunt.

She looked again into the bedroom to reassess that situation. It was just as it had left it the night before – curtains open and a lamp glowing softly on her bedside cabinet. The bedclothes were made except for the slight rippling on the right side where she had slept. Flopping back onto the bed she lay with a hand to her brow and remembered Constance…

She remembered lying half on the bed, and having her legs heaved onto it with the rest of her. She remembered Constance standing over her, lifting her by her shoulders to puff up her pillows, muttering warnings about water and headaches in the morning and the girls seeing her in such a state. And as she'd laid her back down, Imogen had put her arms around Constance's neck and begged her to stay, and Constance's face, just a blur as it was in her memory, had been distorted by the mass of hair which had hung forward, tantilising Imogen's neck. Constance had gathered all her dark hair with one hand and pulled it to one side so that it draped around her shoulder, and she'd looked hard at Imogen for a few moments and then…

And then she had pulled away, reminding Imogen that she was drunk, and Imogen had heard the door close quietly behind her.

Rolling onto her side, Imogen watched the sky getting gradually lighter outside the window. She couldn't help but cringe slightly at the memory of how brazen she had been, and prayed silently that Constance would have put her behaviour down to the alcohol.

As she nestled her hands between her pillow and her cheek, her stomach churned as she unexpectedly recognised the scent of Constance's perfume on her fingers. It was unlike Constance to wear perfume – Imogen doubted that she ever did. But she had worn it last night, for the dinner, and Imogen had noticed as they talked in the basement.

And now, closing her eyes and inhaling for the umpteenth time, she considered never washing her hands again.


	8. Plink Plink Fizz

**Chapter 8 – Plink Plink Fizz**

'Anyone got any Alka Seltzer?' Imogen rested her fists on her hips and squinted against the midday glare which flooded through the staffroom windows. Her head had been subject to a relentless throbbing since the morning, despite her having consumed copious amounts of water and, to her annoyance, Davina and Amelia appeared to be entirely unscathed following their exertions the previous night. _One of the many benefits of having magic at their disposal_, she thought, watching the chanting mistress knitting manically as she hummed a cheery tune.

Constance was bent over her desk marking mock exam papers, and had barely acknowledged Imogen when she entered the room.

'I'll take that as a no, shall I?' Imogen said, after several moments' silence.

'Oh, sorry dear –' Amelia looked up from her newspaper. 'I would offer a quick charm but as you know we're not supposed to practice on the non-magical community.'

Davina picked up her bowl of fruit salad and offered it, wordlessly. Heaving a sigh, Imogen turned towards the door.

'Don't worry, I'll pop into town and get something. I've got my car with me – and nothing'll be open in the village.'

Constance sat bolt upright and surveyed the gym mistress with a concerned expression.

'Are you all right, Constance' Imogen asked. Amelia peered over the top of her paper.

'Yes,' she said, eventually. 'Just… be careful,'

Imogen looked questioningly at Amelia, who casually returned her attention to the paper.

'Be careful about what?'

Rearranging the exams in front of her with forced nonchalance, Constance stamped them into order against the desktop and slid them into a wallet.

'I'm sure it's not an easy journey from here to the town by car – after all, you have to negotiate the mountain's gradient – and then there's the thick woodland...' she rose to her feet and tucked the file under her arm. 'You can never be too careful, Miss Drill.' And with that, she walked briskly out of the room.

Imogen looked back to the other two teachers.

'Is this her version of a hangover?'

**_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

With a basket hooked over her forearm, Imogen hurled various supposed hangover cures into it. The shelves of the town's small convenience store were stocked full of the sorts of things she'd seen advertised on TV when she'd spent her weekends at the flat, all claiming this miracle cure and that burst of energy. Feeling groggy and dehydrated, she threw in a multi-pack of Mars bars for good measure.

As she grabbed a tub of moisturiser from the shelf, Imogen inexplicably felt as though she were being watched. Raising her head towards the shop's window-front, she cast her eyes along the length of it. There was nobody there of note – just a few Sunday pedestrians with newspapers tucked under their arms. The sun was bright but it was a chilly summer morning, the sort that promised to be warmer around midday. Satisfying herself that her imagination was running away with her, Imogen paid and walked quickly across the road, flicking the switch on her keys so that her car blipped in indication that it was unlocked.

'Imogen?' Her stomach was gripped by a pang of trepidation as she heard the familiar voice. Imogen turned around to see Serge on the other side of the road, his hands in his denim pockets, observing her like a nightclub bouncer eyeing up a potential troublemaker.

Clutching her shopping, Imogen tried to appear calm as her heart beat erratically inside her chest.

'How are you doing?' he asked, walking across the road towards her. 'Can I treat you to breakfast?'

'I don't think that's a good –'

'Hey – it's fine, honey. If you're worried about what happened the last week,' he paused to massage the back of his neck, 'That's all forgotten about. Friends?'

Imogen studied his face. He seemed to have colour back in his cheeks and he'd had a shave. His hair was clean and he was wearing a new checked shirt in two contrasting shades of blue. He smiled fondly at her, and for a moment she was reminded how his broad, white smile had first attracted her to him.

'How about a "fry up"?' he said, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers. It had always made her laugh when he used typically British terminology and tried to put on a cut-glass accent. Finally allowing herself to smile, she opened the boot door of her off-roader and swung the shopping bag inside.

'OK then – fry up.'

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

The ketchup dispenser was a plastic bottle in the shape of a tomato. Imogen had been fiddling nervously with it since they had taken their seats and were now awaiting the arrival of their breakfast.

Ron's "Caff", as it seemed to be pronounced, was about as rough and ready as a greasy spoon could be. Ron himself, seemingly exempt from the law, puffed on a cigarette which drooped lazily from the side of his mouth as he cooked, an inch long accumulation of ash looking as though it might end up garnishing the fried eggs.

'So – how's life at the school?' Serge ripped the end off a paper sachet of brown sugar and tipped it into his mug of steaming tea.

'You mean the freak show?' said Imogen, sarcastically. He rolled his eyes.

'No, I don't mean the freak show, OK? Look – I'm sorry about that. I was upset. Have you never said anything you didn't mean when you were upset?'

Imogen watched as he slurped his tea, loudly, a habit she had found endearing at first yet which had become increasingly irksome.

'OK, I'm sorry. They're all fine. We had dinner last night, actually.' Imogen puffed up proudly as she said this. It still gave her a buzz to think she was almost "one of them".

'Dinner? That's a bit indulgent for your thrifty headmistress, isn't it?'

'It was to welcome me to the school, now that I'm there on a more permanent basis.'

A cry from behind the counter caused Imogen to jump and Ron, cigarette in one hand and plate in the other, launched into a rather intrusive broadcast:

'EGGS, BEANS, HASH BROWNS, TWO BACON, SAUSAGE, TOMATO,'

'That's mine,' Serge scraped his chair across the floor and Imogen watched him as he walked over to the counter, exchanging words with Ron who handed him two plates and nodded in the direction of the cutlery. Serge would have been many a woman's ideal – tall, but not too tall, broad shoulders, full head of chestnut hair – and then there was that Canadian drawl...

She deliberately turned her gaze away as he returned to the table. Yes, she thought – he would have been many a woman's ideal – but he wasn't hers.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Imogen grimaced slightly as she watched Serge wipe the remaining sauce from his plate with a slice of buttered white bread. That was one thing she couldn't abide – cleaning crockery with the food. He smiled up at her as she shoved the last of the bread in his mouth.

'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'I'm sure they'll give it a proper soaping down later. How was yours?'

Imogen looked down at the discarded food which was now forming an unappetising skin in the stagnant air of the café.

'Very nice thanks. A bit much for me though.'

'Well – how about you come back to the flat for a rest before you head back?' Serge slid his cutlery from her plate onto his and stacked it neatly, not looking at her as he spoke. Feeling slightly uncomfortable at the prospect of being alone with him for the first time since their argument, Imogen hesitated.

'It's OK,' he said, finally. 'Like I said, last week is forgotten about. Plus you might as well pick up the rest of your stuff.'

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Imogen entered the flat cautiously, her eyes surveying the place as though it were the first time she had ever been there. There was a sweet, vanilla scent in the air, and she glanced towards the kitchen to see it looking spick and span.

'You must have a new girlfriend!' she mocked. 'It was never this tidy when I lived here.'

Her smile faded as she passed the bedroom and noticed the entire mirror missing from the door which Serge had collided with. He noticed her staring and walked across to the door, patting the glassless panel.

'Replacement ordered,' he smiled. 'Don't worry, these things happen. But you know I won't be telling my friends about how my girlfriend hurled me across the room like she was suddenly something out of the X-Men. How the hell _did _that happen, by the way?'

Imogen pulled her cuffs over her knuckles and fiddled with the fabric. 'I don't know,' she said, thinking back to the incident and briefly remembering the door that Mildred had insisted had been locked that she had apparently miraculously managed to prise open. 'You must have lost your balance.'

'Well,' he said, walking over to her and slipping an arm around her waist. 'Never mind. It's not like it's going to happen again, is it?'

His grip, and his eyes on hers with their glint of seriousness that seemed to dare her to disagree, caused Imogen to feel anxious. She didn't belong to him anymore, and she didn't like him having his arm around her – but she didn't want to protest and risk his wrath. Deciding that the only option was to humour him, she hoped with a feeling of dread that he didn't have any reconciliation tactics in mind…

'Whiskey?' said Serge.

'Better not. Still feel a bit ropey after last night. Can I get myself some water for the tablets, though?' and as Imogen turned to head for the kitchen her eyes widened in panic as she felt him grab her from behind, clamping a thick cloth over her face.


	9. Deep Water

_Dear all – apologies – I have taken it upon myself to pinch a scene out of a film here. No prizes for guessing which one; but I have of course amended it for the purposes of the Fic!!_

_I don't own anything… blah blah_

**Chapter 9 – Deep Water**

Imogen's eyelids trembled, opening a mere millimetre before their inexplicable weight closed them again.

She realised with panic that she had no feeling in her fingers or her toes, her arms or her legs. Channelling all her energy into her eyelids, they opened, slowly, to reveal white, dreamlike blurs drifting into focus. Water was rising steadily around her, thundering down in a relentless jet somewhere near her feet. Her memory, scrambled and disorientated, pieced the images together…

She was slumped in her old bath in the flat, fully clothed with a figure looming over her. It leant in form her left to take a closer look. Her eyes, being the only part of her which seemed still to be mobile apart from her lungs, drifted towards it.

It was Serge. Watching her, thoughtfully, like a contemplative scholar. She stared, unable to utter a sound. As her memory sketched images of the scene on the landing and the cloth he had gagged her with, she realised with sinking fear that he was the perpetrator of her predicament.

As her eyes drifted back towards her feet she saw that the water had risen significantly in the previous few moments. She breathed with steady panic, desperately trying to move her fingers and toes. The creamy scent of vanilla from the air freshener on the windowsill tormented her with its sweetness, such a contrast her overwhelming fear.

Serge rose and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Imogen to watch the water as it continued to rise.

Summoning every ounce of will, she tried to move a finger. _What the hell has he done to me? _she thought, watching her motionless hand as it hovered weightlessly beneath the surface of the water.

The memory of a recurring childhood dream rushed though her mind – of stumbling into a road and being unable to move out of the way of an oncoming car. _But this isn't a dream_, she thought, with foreboding.

Imogen was reminded of a film where this happened – they'd watched it together, her and Serge. He'd had his arm around her shoulders and she'd been snuggled against his chest. She remembered the scent of Lacoste on his shirt, her ear against his chest and the secure sound of his rumbling voice emanating from within. It frightened her to think he had remembered this particular scene and used it himself for some kind of twisted revenge.

She stared towards the far end of the bath. To dislodge the plug you had to twist a large round handle which was situated several inches above her feet. Distance was everything when you had been immobilised, and the few centimetres between her toes and the handle were hopelessly far.

Imogen felt tears stinging her eyes as the water rose, swaying slightly with the force of the constant stream from the tap. It was starting to lap against her chin. Blinking, the tears slid quickly down her cheeks and merged with the water.

She wondered what Serge was doing now, what he planned to do with her, and how on earth he planned to get away with it. She wondered how many other films he'd got ideas from over the years and wondered why she had never suspected him to have a dangerous mind. She thought of Constance and further tears came. The water was now almost level with her nostrils. She gasped slightly as it slapped back and forth, distorting her hearing as it seeped into her ears and out again… She was sure she was catching fragments of disturbed sounds from the direction of the landing. Her heart pounded as she was sure she felt her index finger twitch. _Please_, she begged of whichever God might be listening, _please, just give me a few more moments…_

The water slapped harder against her ears, the hollow sound of being under water filling her with a fear that these genuinely were the last moments of her life. She strangely remembered her mother scooping her up after she'd fallen from her first tricycle, the graze on her knee and the sting of TCP… and as she held her breath and hoped and prayed and swore that she would never again say a bad word about anybody if only she were allowed to survive, she caught a distorted sound of agony from the landing, and was fully engulfed beneath the water.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The cold, fresh air contrasted with Imogen's sodden clothes as she was pulled against the resistance of the bathwater. She felt herself being swung back around to face into the bath, being repeatedly struck hard between the shoulders as she gasped and choked.

Opening her stinging eyes, she vomited water back into the bath, watching the miniature whirlpool as the plug sucked thirstily from the depths. Someone was speaking behind her, their muffled tones reassuring. As she gradually regained her breath, the last tickling gasps of panic at the inability to breathe passing, Imogen became aware of an arm firmly around her waist, across her stomach to support her over the side of the enamel bath, which she clutched with the water-withered flesh of her fingers.

The hand that had been striking her back now moved to her face and wiped her drenched streaks of hair from her forehead. She was slowly pulled away from the bath and turned around so that she sat against its pine side panel. Breathing heavily but more rhythmically now, her eyes met Constance's unreadable expression. Imogen's clothes were welded to her skin, soaking into the rug beneath her.

'Can you move yet?' Constance asked, as matter-of-factly as only she could in a life or death situation. Imogen nodded through deep breaths as Constance took hold of her hand and looked meaningfully at it. Imogen squeezed, limply, noticing that the front of Constance's dress was soaking wet.

'He might come –' Imogen whispered, hoarsely, with a glance towards the door. Constance shook her head.

'He won't.'

'What happened?'

Constance was smoothing Imogen's hair gently with a towel as the latter stared searchingly up at her colleague. Imogen realised with relief that the numbness in her toes was subsiding.

'Don't worry about that now. When you can walk we'll get you back to the school.'


	10. Reality Bites

**Chapter 10 – Reality Bites**

'How are you feeling, dear?'

Imogen stirred, stretching as she propped herself up against her pillows. Amelia was sitting on the side of her bed, looking over the top of her glasses with a comforting, maternal smile on her face. She had arrived a few minutes earlier armed with a bag of green grapes, most of which she had devoured herself as she waited for Imogen to rouse.

'I'm fine,' Imogen yawned, running her fingers through her hair like makeshift combs. 'Can I go back to work today?'

'You must rest for a day or two, Imogen – at least to make sure you didn't catch a chill from your ordeal.' Amelia offered the bag to the gym mistress, who shook her head. Observing Amelia closely, Imogen noticed the headmistress's smile fade as she popped another grape into her mouth and gazed somewhere on the rug.

'Look – Amelia. It's really nice of you to come and see me - but is anyone ever going to tell me what happened? Davina's pleading ignorance and Constance hasn't even been to _see_ me, and sooner or later I'm going to have to –'

'Ah, Constance…' said Amelia, thoughtfully, scrunching the top of the brown paper bag and setting it down on the bedside cabinet. 'I'm sure she's just very busy catching up from the marking she missed the other day when she was… well, when she was – indisposed.'

Imogen sighed, folding her arms heavily across her chest and feeling decidedly useless. She decided to give up on her endeavours for truth for the time being: clearly Amelia was determined to be about as forthcoming as everyone else. As the headmistress politely made her excuses and closed the door behind her, Imogen slid back under the covers and closed her eyes…

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

There had been a heap on the floor of the landing.

Imogen, still finding her balance, had an arm firmly gripping Constance's waist. The potions mistress clutched her to keep her from collapse as she led Imogen cautiously from the bathroom. Constance tried her best to distract her from the heap on the floor with a detailed chemical description of the halothane Serge had used to immobilise her, along with reassurances that the side effects would be short lived.

Imogen's heart quickened as she recognised Serge's jeans amongst the pile. Constance noticed this and pulled her firmly into the bedroom, sitting her on the end of the bed in her soaking wet clothes and proceeding to fumble through the unfamiliarity of Imogen's chest of drawers for her clothes. Producing a pair of loose running trousers, she held them up to her colleague.

'Will these do?'

Imogen nodded. Constance dropped them on the bed along with a rugby-style shirt and hooded sweater. Imogen felt a brief moment of embarrassment at the realisation that Constance had seen some of her less flattering weekend wear, accompanied by relief that some sort of normality had ensued. The deputy headmistress was now busying herself with pulling the sodden t-shirt roughly over Imogen's head and shoulders, like a hasty parent undressing a child as the wet fabric stuck to Imogen's skin. She caught the towel which Constance hurled in her direction as she left the room.

'I'll wait outside. Two minutes.'

Imogen rose steadily to her feet and flexed one foot after the other, relieved that the feeling was back. She clenched her fists and then splayed her fingers. She rotated her shoulders, her neck, and bent her knees. With everything apparently in working order, she grabbed the towel and rubbed her damp skin until it was dry enough for the fresh clothes. Pulling the trousers from the bed, she stepped quickly into them.

Concern clouded her mind again as she remembered what she had seen outside the room. She had caught sight of fingers, too – protruding out from beneath the heap of jeans and familiar check material.

Serge's Timberlands had been arranged neatly by the porch, the way they always were. She shuddered as she rolled the hooded sweater over her shoulders and thrust her arms through the sleeves. He had actually taken the time to put his shoes away as she had lain unconscious in the bath...

Stepping out into the hallway, Constance was waiting for her by the door with her cloak around her shoulders and Imogen's coat over her arm. Imogen's gaze drifted to the empty clearing of carpet where Serge had been.

'What did you do with –'

Constance was expressionless as she said, crisply: 'We must go, Miss Drill. Now.'

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Imogen woke with a start, sitting bolt upright. Looking around the room, she saw the bag of grapes still on the bedside cabinet and realised with a sinking feeling that the dream had been a reality, and that the burdensome thoughts which accompanied it still had to be faced. Leaping out of bed she changed into her usual sports gear, with every intention of hurtling down the corridor to confront Constance and find out what on earth had been going on.

Just as she crouched to tie her shoelaces, something caught her eye at the foot of the door.

An expensive-looking cream parchment envelope, sealed with red wax.

Walking over to it, her laces trailing behind her, Imogen picked it up and turned it over in her hand, reading the elaborately looping handwriting on the other side:

"_Strictly Private & Confidential - Miss I Drill"_


	11. Crises of Conscience

_I don't own anything. Oh well…_

_I'm never going to be happy with this one, so I'm just going to whack it up and hope for the best. _

_One or two naughty words, I'm afraid. _

**Chapter 11 – Crises of Conscience**

Imogen's heart pounded as she hastily ripped open the envelope with trembling hands. She'd know that beautiful handwriting anywhere…

_Dear Imogen _

_Firstly, I apologise that this information has taken so long to reach you. There has simply not been an appropriate time to explain before now. _

_Secondly, I apologise for not having spoken to you about this myself. You see, Imogen, things are rather complicated when it comes to magic, and in this case, they have become somewhat out of hand. _

_You will remember the book you tried to take from my classroom after the dinner (yes, you do remember - and you are right to blush with guilt! I would never condone breaking and entering…) Well, the book itself (and the condition of my telling you this is that this letter is to be destroyed by Miss Cackle immediately that you have read it) is an encyclopaedia of the more sinister arts, with an entire chapter devoted to the magical phenomenon known as Thought Intervention. Yes, Imogen – it is exactly what it says it is, and yes, this is how I knew you were in danger from Serge's previously undisclosed "Dr Jekyll" persona. _

_I will not delve into the intricacies of my first inkling as to Serge's true nature – that doesn't matter now; but– as they say – to cut a long story short, I realised that it was becoming increasingly necessary for me to be present when the two of you were alone. Please do not fret over this – the first time was, as you will remember, when you went to collect your things from his residence – never before then. The second occasion I do not need to remind you of. _

_Put simply, Thought Intervention concerns itself predominantly with attuning the mind of the Intervener (in this case, myself) to the more acute emotional frequencies of the Subject (you). This enables the Intervener to sense when the Subject undergoes a sudden, heightened emotional change such as fear, for example. The Intervener can then make herself present in the location of the Subject and "Intervene" as necessary. It is an ancient form of protection that has been banned from general use and is only supposed to be used in cases of extreme terror threat, such as Sorceric War. _

_There are several side effects: one being that powers can be transferred from the Intervener to the Subject. (This was not entirely unintentional on my part when I enabled you to defend yourself against Serge – it was the only way I could intervene without making things even more difficult for you – i.e. by making myself visibly present.) _

_Another side effect is that, on occasion, the thoughts and lesser emotions of the Subject can become apparent to the Intervener. That is, the Intervener can effectively mind-read for anything from a split second to several days (another reason it is prohibited – on the grounds of confidentiality)._

_Finally, the Subject, although unaware of the intervention, is liable to become attached to the Intervener. This is because of the psychic bond which is created between the two and which can, as I'm sure you can imagine, cause all sorts of inappropriate problems…_

_My difficulty now, Imogen, is that what with Thought Intervention being one of the forbidden arts, I have no choice but to resign my post at the school without further delay. If it were ever exposed that I had exercised the practice, the school would be brought into disrepute and I would be struck off as a teacher and stripped of magic. It being in my nature always to be honest, I intend to give myself up to the Sorceric Authorities and will endeavour to keep the school out of the equation entirely. _

_Serge, for what it's worth, is alive and reasonably well. And here I ask you to abide by one condition – never to seek him out. I have wiped his memory clean of the recent events concerning you so that he will not endeavour to look for you; but if he sees you, he will remember everything. Avoiding all future contact is the only way you can protect yourself. _

_I hope you will forgive me, Imogen – it was the only way I could stop him from the worst possible thing a person can do. _

_As I mentioned earlier, I would insist that you to take this letter to Amelia immediately, and see that she destroys it before you leave her company. _

_Yours sincerely _

_Miss Constance Hardbroom _

Imogen took a deep, trembling breath. The full impact of what Constance had done for her – at endless personal cost to herself – hit her like a bullet in the back. A writhing fear from somewhere inside rose up and filled her with an all-consuming, sickening panic. Kicking the cumbersome, unlaced shoes from her feet she sprinted as fast as she could down the stairs and along the corridor to Amelia's office, the letter clutched tightly in her hand.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Amelia's face dropped as she read the note, her skin turning a deathly shade of pale.

Slowly, she sank into the seat behind her desk, not taking her eyes from the letter as she reached the end of it.

'What the hell are we going to do?' Imogen's tone was one of suppressed panic. Leaning forward with her palms on Amelia's desk, she secretly hoped that the headmistress would console her, tell her that Constance had been mistaken, that Thought Intervention was not a sackable offence…

'I'm afraid there's nothing we _can_ do,' she said, mournfully. 'Constance knew what she was doing.'

'But she did it for _me_!' Imogen slapped a hand onto the desk, her palm stinging with the force, 'I might be dead now if it wasn't for her –'

'It's not as simple as that,' Amelia flinched at her colleague's reaction but maintained her calm. 'It would be the end of the Academy if it were ever to come out. It would risk my job, yours, not to mention the girls' futures…'

'Oh, _fuck_ all of that!' Imogen was frightened by her own rage. 'This is Constance we're talking about. Whatever she does, she does for the right reason. Are you saying I'd be better off dead?'

'_No!_' Amelia snapped as she rose from her seat. 'Don't be so ridiculous. But there are consequences here and Constance has to pay for them.'

Imogen watched the headmistress open mouthed, as the older woman shook with a rage that Imogen had never associated with her before. She felt an instant surge of panic rushing through her. Being devoid of Amelia's usual diplomacy, which seemed to know what to do under the most strenuous of circumstances, forced upon Imogen a sense of total isolation. Feeling her face contort with grief, Imogen slumped heavily into the chair opposite the headmistress's desk. She didn't cry easily but this had to be the third time in a fortnight. Hearing Amelia sit back down, she felt the headmistress place a cool, slightly trembling hand on her arm.

'Imogen – look at me.' Her voice was deliberately steady. 'Please don't cry, dear. I'm sorry - but you have to understand that I can't jeopardise the future of the school.'

Imogen shook her head as the salty tears rolled down her cheeks. 'No, Amelia. I can't, and I never _will_ understand. I can't believe you would just let her go, after everything she has done for the school.'

For several minutes they sat in mournful silence, with only the ticking of the clock for comfort. The morning sun formed a hazy glow through the windows, and Imogen resented it, thinking how the girls would probably be waking up about now, peering out of their windows and exchanging comments about the "lovely morning".

'_Damn_, I wish I'd warned her against this,' Amelia broke the silence, muttering to herself as she massaged her brow.

'What?' Imogen gave her the sort of weary look which suggested she'd lost all faith in the headmistress's authority. Watching the stress take its toll on Amelia, Imogen pulled the visitor's chair closer to the mahogany desk and leant forward on her elbows.

'Amelia – tell me what you mean.'

Amelia held her breath and turned her eyes up towards the desperate face of her colleague.

'She wrote me a letter… some time ago,' she began. 'She said she thought you were in danger and that she had started practicing Thought Intervention as a way of – well – keeping an eye on you. She asked my permission to carry on with the practice which I think was fairly un-advanced at that stage, and I advised her against it. I warned her she could get into a lot of trouble – of course I never expected it to come to _this_.'

Imogen was confused. 'I don't understand – so why does she have to go if you knew about it? You _gave_ her permission…'

'It's not just the Thought Intervention itself which is the issue. It's a highly prohibited practice and she could have had a year's suspension from teaching for it; but it's relatively easy enough to get away with, particularly if you are as astute as Constance. It's how the side effects affect the Subject which is the problem.' Amelia replaced her glasses and scanned the paragraphs of the letter again. 'She mentions here the transferral of power… and the fact that you were able to defend yourself against Serge…' She peered at Imogen. 'Imogen – have you been able to perform magic?'

Imogen's breath caught in her throat as she considered how to answer – lie and potentially cover up the situation only to cause unknown problems later – or tell the truth and risk never seeing Constance again.

'This is important, Imogen.' The fixed stare of the headmistress told Imogen that she probably knew anyway.

'Well – I –' she faltered, 'I managed to somehow push Serge across the room when he had me pinned against the wall…'

'And?'

'And then there was the other occasion when I managed to open a locked door and some drawers in the potions lab… But wasn't all of that Constance?'

Amelia sighed. 'Clearly the Serge incident was. She shouldn't have done it – but she wanted to protect you. But she would hardly have helped you access a prohibited book, would she?'

Imogen racked her brains for some sort of justification.

'OK – so I've got a power that I didn't have before. Surely whatever it is will wear off? It's not like I'm a witch – I wouldn't know what to do with it!'

Amelia rose again and turned towards the window, chewing the end of her glasses in dark contemplation.

'It's precisely _because _you don't know how to use the power which makes it dangerous. Each time something magical happens to you, your supplies are "charged", so to speak. There's no telling how long you could be like this. But a witch's power in the hands on a non witch would stand out like a sore thumb if we were to have a school inspection. God _knows_ what Heckitty Broomhead would do to Constance if she found out…' she turned back to face Imogen. 'Does anyone else know about all this?'

Imogen bit her lip.

'Mildred Hubble,'

'Oh, Christ,'

'She's trustworthy, Amelia – you know she is. All right, she's not the quickest thinker - but she's not malicious for the sake of it like Ethel Hallow. And truth be told, I think if Mildred thought Constance might lose her job because of the risk of her telling anyone, she'd be mortified. And are you saying there's nothing that could be done which could reverse my supposed magical status? I think we all know Constance well enough to know she'd have a back-up plan.'

On waiting for a response which didn't come, Imogen let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. Everything she looked at reminded her of Constance, and everything seemed to mock her, to remind her that she would never see her again and that nobody was on her side – not even trusty old Amelia. And then, as her mind skimmed over the details of the last few weeks, the conversation by the stream, the dinner, the strange sightings of her in unusual places, a cold realisation dawned on her. Getting to her feet with a giddy sensation running though her limbs, she walked dazedly over to the headmistress's side.

'Amelia – can I see the letter again, please?' Amelia seemed to break out of her thoughts as she handed back the note.

'What? Oh - yes, of course.'

Imogen ran an unsteady finger down the pages until she got to the paragraph she had only hoped had been in her imagination.

…_the Intervener can effectively mind-read for anything from a split second to several days…_

Imogen's heart began to pound frenetically in her chest.

_Oh God, no…_

'What on earth's the matter, Imogen? You look quiet faint! Let me help you sit down -'

Imogen, still steadying her breathing, brushed Amelia's hand away and put the letter on the desk.

'I think I know what the real problem is. Look,' she pointed to the paragraph she had just re-read. 'Forget the magic - _that's_ the side effect I need to be worried about.'

Amelia furrowed her brow and peered down at the text, as though unsure she was reading the right thing.

'The mind reading? Why should that be a problem? Unless you're planning to blow up the school of course!' she let out a nervous titter and eyed her colleague with mild alarm.

'Amelia, please,' Imogen's breathing was quick with anxiety. 'I can't explain. But you have to help me find Constance. I need to speak to her now.'


	12. Revelations

_Right - penultimate chapter up at last. There will be one more. Thanks to all who have reviewed - it's been wicked fun and there will be plenty more. _

_I don't own anything. _

**Chapter 12- Revelations  
**

They had found Constance in her room which, as Imogen had suspected, was an exact replica of her own, sparsely decorated with a dressing table to one side and a desk to the other. At the farthest end was a bed big enough for two (why they came as standard for the staff Imogen could only guess – Miss Cackle was hardly likely to permit 'significant others' to spend the night in the school), and off to the corner was a small, ensuite bathroom.

Constance was sitting at the dressing table which was as uncluttered as only Constance Hardbroom's dressing table could be, in front of her standard-issue three-pane mirror. Only a handful of items of note could be seen in the reflection: a small, anonymous tub of foundation, a couple of make-up brushes, and three small black pots which Imogen imagined contained the lipstick, mascara and eyeliner that Constance herself concocted.

The deputy headmistress's fingers were steeped as she observed the two of them behind her in the mirror. Amelia, who regarded the room with the sort of disinterest of someone who had been there before, sank wearily onto the end of Constance's bed and rubbed her eyes as she began to speak.

Imogen barely paid any attention to the headmistress's monologue about the mess Constance had got herself into. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on the reflection of Constance, the tips of the deputy's fingers caressing her bottom lip as she returned her gaze thoughtfully, seemingly mulling over unanswered questions in her mind. Glancing beneath the dressing table, Imogen noticed two neatly packed bags. Flicking her eyes back up to meet Constance's, she silently implored her to change her mind…

'…and then,' Amelia was saying, 'there's no telling how long Imogen will be able to perform magic, whether or not she chooses to. Didn't you even _contemplate_ the consequences that could have for the school?'

'And what would you have suggested, Headmistress?' Constance spoke stoically, keeping her eyes on Imogen. 'That I turn a blind eye and leave Serge to his reign of terror?'

'Of course not!' Amelia snapped. 'But you could have come to me. We could have sorted this out one way or another – at least not like _this_.'

'You seem to forget, Miss Cackle, that I did seek your permission to carry out Thought Intervention on a previous occasion –'

'At which point you had already _started_!'

'If I may finish… and you gave me your approval – if a little reluctantly – in the interests of Miss Drill's safety.'

'Constance, can I just –' Imogen interjected, before Amelia cut her short.

'Please, Imogen – if you don't mind – this is something I need to address with Miss Hardbroom.' Imogen blinked at the headmistress, whose words had been more irritable than she supposed she'd meant them to be. Amelia continued. 'There were plenty of other ways he could have been dealt with – and not all of them magical. If Imogen had felt she was in danger I'm sure she would have let someone more suited to dealing with the situation know.'

Constance rolled her eyes. 'You're missing the point.'

'Don't speak to me like that, Constance!' Amelia rose from her seat and whipped her glasses off, angrily. 'You seem to forget at times that _I_ am still headmistress here and you are my deputy!' She punctuated the words by jabbing a finger repeatedly in Constance's direction. Constance instinctively rose so that she towered as usual above Amelia, rage flashing in her eyes.

'And _you_ seem to forget that I learned my craft from the best! Broomhead may be the most vile, iniquitous woman ever to have darkened my door but God knows she taught me when to trust my instincts!'

A deafening silence was suddenly upon the room, like a cloying fog that had descended from nowhere. Constance never spoke about Hecketty Broomhead unless it was unavoidable. Nobody knew or dared to ask what had happened all those years ago when Constance had been under her tutelage; but they were all astute enough to know that they had been the most miserable years of her life and that, had things been different, Constance might be an entirely different person today.

As Imogen watched the potions mistress walk restlessly to the end of her bed and grip the bedstead as though she might collapse without it, she thought for a moment of placing a comforting hand on her colleague's shoulder – but Constance's unblinking, slightly alarmed gaze told her that she was desperately trying to avoid tears and would not react well to unwanted affection. Instead, Imogen allowed Amelia the time to thaw back to her usual, maternal self. The headmistress walked to Constance's side and, resting a hand on her forearm, she spoke softly.

'Constance – I'm sorry. You know I'm a stickler for caution. It's not like you to deviate from the regimented rules of the Witches' Code, or the Witches' Guild Order of Practice, or any other enforced regulations, for that matter.' She looked cautiously over her shoulder at Imogen, before turning back to Constance. 'But – as much as it goes against my grain to say this - I've come to my conclusion. I know why you did it. And I can honestly say that I can't imagine this school without you.'

Imogen bit the inside of her cheek as she caught the crack in Amelia's voice. She felt utterly helpless – this was all down to her, and yet ultimately her opinion was futile.

'What I'm trying to say, Constance, is that – if you are prepared to put your conscience to one side – I will go to whatever lengths are required to pretend none of this ever happened. Goodness knows you took a foolish risk that could still cost all of us our jobs - but you've made your sacrifices and now I'm making mine.'

Imogen could have kissed Amelia.

'Impossible.' came Constance's quick response.

In that split second Imogen's hopes were dashed and she swallowed hard to soothe the lump in her throat.

'Please, Constance…' she whispered. The potions mistress turned to face her, having regained her composure.

'Imogen, my dear – I am afraid you could not possibly understand these matters.'

'Actually, I do,' Imogen said, trembling at the danger of confronting Constance. 'Now _you're_ the one missing the point – or at least refusing to face up to things. There's another reason you want to go, isn't there?'

Constance ignored the confused glances of Amelia as she continued.

'I will say again, Miss Drill – there are things which you simply do not understand about the –'

Imogen sighed heavily over her words.

'Stop using that as an excuse not to face up to things!'

'Is this about Serge?' asked Amelia, hurriedly.

'No, Amelia, but Constance won't let me –'

'Because I thought he'd been dealt with?'

Constance glared at the headmistress. 'Don't say it like I've "bumped him off"!'

'Oh if only…' Imogen muttered.

'Funnily enough, Imogen, my duty of care for my colleagues does not stretch to murder!'

'Will you two shut up!' snapped Amelia, hunching her shoulders against the pair of them as she slipped her glasses back on. 'You sound like an old married couple!' Imogen's stomach lurched as she noticed Constance's scrutinising gaze.

'Amelia – would you mind giving us a moment alone please?' Imogen couldn't look at Constance as she spoke, but felt the vibes of unease emanating from her as the headmistress looked confusedly for approval. Constance nodded hesitantly, and Imogen fixed her eyes somewhere on the rug as the headmistress left the room, clicking the door shut behind her.

Several silent moments passed, during which time Constance took her seat at the dressing table again, facing away from the mirror as Imogen sat on the floor by the door with her knees drawn up and her arms hugging them to her. Letting her head fall to her knees, she began.

'Look. I know you don't have to leave, Constance. I'm not stupid. You're using this whole Thought Intervention thing and your conscience as an excuse.'

Constance examined her fingernails, remaining silent.

'You know Amelia can't manage this place without you. You _know_ that whatever you did, she'd back you up...'

Met by more silence Imogen contemplated whether to continue - but decided she had hesitated long enough.

'And I know… I _know_ you know how I feel about you.'

Raising her head, Imogen's vision was slightly blurred where her closed eyes had been resting against her knees. There was short sharp sniff from Constance, who sat stiffly at her dressing table, avoiding Imogen's gaze.

'Say something - _please_?' Imogen implored. Constance fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve, something Imogen had heard her reprimanding students for before now. Letting her head lull back against the hard stone wall, Imogen signed.

'I never intended you to find out. I would never have told you, or done anything to put you in an awkward position, or set about changing the way things were between us. I've always known the school is your priority, and the reason you've sacrificed the sort of life every other woman wants. But it's not my _fault _you found out how I feel about you. I didn't _ask _you to read my thoughts. OK – it was a side effect of the Thought Intervention. I know you're not nosey and you wouldn't have deliberately invaded my mind. But taking it out on me in this way isn't fair.'

'And how precisely is my leaving the school "taking it out" on you, Imogen? Indeed you could credit me with improving your prospects within the Academy and giving you a better quality of staffroom life, without me there to disagree with your non-magical, newfangled teaching methods...'

Imogen's mouth hung open with indignation. 'I think we're past that now, aren't we? I know we've had our moments but I have the utmost respect for you, Constance, and I know they don't always show it but the girls do too. The sort of respect they'll never have for me.'

Constance shifted in her seat. 'And for you they have the sort of affection they'll never have for me.'

'You underestimate yourself.'

'That's one thing I do not do!'

'I don't mean your abilities. I mean you're loved more than you could ever know - more than no end of Thought Intervention will tell you.'

Constance stiffened and, as Imogen had anticipated, said nothing. Imogen ran both hands through her hair and turned her face up towards a window. The morning haze had lifted and matured into a chilly yellow sunlight, and she suspected Constance's restlessness was partly down to her self-inflicted obligation to be keeping order somewhere by this time. She continued, regardless.

'I might not understand witchcraft, Constance, but I understand teenage girls and I know they'd be devastated if you left. You're their pillar of strength and confidence, and they needthat now. There's no one else here who can give them that.' Imogen drew a deep breath. 'And as for me, I think I know what your problem is.'

'And what - _exactly_ - do you think my problem is, Imogen?' Constance enquired, coldly.

'You're freaked out.' The potions mistress raised an eyebrow at the colloquialism. 'That's why you want to go. You want to escape my feelings. But you can't keep running from the things in life which make you uncomfortable.'

'It will make things difficult.' Constance faltered.

In a moment of courageous madness Imogen sprang from her position against the wall and dropped to her knees in front of the potions mistress, taking her cold, unyielding hands in her own.

'It doesn't have to make _anything _difficult.' she pleaded, desperately.

Constance looked with unease down at Imogen's hands as they clasped her own.

'Are you not going to say anything at all?'

'It puts me in a very difficult position, Imogen.' she spoke as though her entire being were rigid.

'But why?'

'Because – whether you admit it or not, it changes things.'

Imogen sighed. 'Are you telling me you've gone through life completely oblivious to people's feelings towards you before now?'

Constance smirked. 'I think we can safely say that several years at Cackle's Academy provides the perfect barrier from irksome, lecherous males, don't you?'

'Oh come _on_! You honestly think none of the girls has ever had a crush on you?'

Constance's eyes flashed as though she'd never heard anything more preposterous. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn't come.

Imogen couldn't suppress a laugh. 'I don't believe this! Either you're an incredibly good actress or you're incredibly naive. And have you never had feelings for anyone?'

Constance sneered. 'Hecketty Broomhead bottled my affections and keeps them in her potions cabinet.'

Imogen's eyes widened in amazement.

'Oh, of course she didn't, girl!'

The brief moment of enlightenment was a welcome distraction from an otherwise awkward exchange. Imogen had always been stirred by Constance's dry sense of humour, and the fact that she could make a joke about something as painful as her Broomhead years only served to draw her even closer. Her heart sank as the vague smile faded and Constance's dark thoughts became apparent in her expression.

'Constance –'

'There's nothing more to say, Imogen. I have arrangements to make. Would you please excuse me.' And just as she slipped her hands gently from the clasp of the gym mistress's, she flinched as they were seized again.

'No, Constance – I need to say one more thing. One more thing, I promise.'

Constance relented and, drawing in a deep sigh, she nodded reluctantly. Imogen racked her brains for the words she had rehearsed time and time again in the past few hours.

'Constance, I know this goes against every grain of your professional integrity, but _please_ don't go like this. I knowit will be uncomfortable for you at first, and I'm really, really sorry you found out how I feel. It's completely inappropriate and nothing can ever come of it, I know that. But just remember this before you make your decision – that I'd rather be here with you forever than anywhere else in the world, even if you never so much as look at me again.'

Her heart pounded as she concluded, unable to remove her gaze from that of Constance, who seemed almost petrified to the spot. Imogen was filled with a cleansing sense of relief that took the place of the demon that had just escaped her.

Constance released a deep, trembling sigh, as though she had held her breath throughout the whole of what had been the closest thing she had ever received to a declaration of love.

Glancing nervously between the door and her packed bags, she eventually said: 'I trust you will let yourself out.'

'What?'

And in a moment, Constance had disappeared, and Imogen was left kneeling helplessly in front of the deserted seat in Constance's cold, empty bedchamber.


	13. The Beginning

Right – this is it. I suppose it could be better, but I'm at a point where I really am bored with looking at it!

As this really is the end, I hope it is not a great disappointment.

Thanks to tall of you who have reviewed – you have kept me going through an arduous process!

**Chapter 13 – The Beginning **

Amelia Cackle swept the blackboard with broad strokes, causing a brief mist of dust to cling to the air around her. Usually she would exercise Constance's tried and tested chalk removal spell, which was rather more convenient for time and certainly healthier on the lungs; but this morning she felt that the longer she took to deal with trivial tasks, the less time there would be for pupil speculation over the whereabouts of their potions mistress. When the dust had abated she took a deep breath and prepared herself to face the second years.

As she turned around she immediately caught the troubled gaze of Mildred Hubble and couldn't help but feel slightly irritated at the way she absentmindedly chewed the end of one of her plaits, her fringe catching on her lashes as her wide eyes blinked. Of course, Amelia had never been into the art of mind reading herself and was feeling particularly sensitive about it given recent events; but she couldn't help but read the questions which were running erratically through Mildred's mind. Casting her eyes around the rest of the class, Amelia noticed that the others, whilst solemn, were clearly not as concerned about Constance's absence as Mildred was. How ironic, she thought, forcing open the stiff, wooden drawer and taking out a new packet of chalk, that the only girl who cared was the one Constance had the least amount of time for.

Still, given the afterthoughts that had arisen in Amelia's mind following the morning's events, that was probably the story of Constance's life.

'Now, girls, before you open your textbooks at page 119, _The Properties of Celtic Herbs_,' she announced, trying to engineer a tone more enthusiastic than she felt. 'Can anyone tell me – through _memory_, Enid Nightshade – the names of the Seven Sacred Celtic Herbs?'

Ethel's hand shot into the hair, stretching her side as she reached for the sky.

'I'm not sure Miss,' Enid announced after she had let her eyes search the ceiling for the answer, prolonging her response to mock the desperate murmurs of Ethel. 'Miss Hardbroom was going to go through them with us today. But she doesn't seem to be here.'

Amelia silently admitted to herself that she had walked straight into that one. Of all the girls in form three, the one most likely to confront a teacher was Enid. During their first year, the girls were still too cautious to ask even their gentle Headmistress a polite question; but as time went on, their fear of authority was watered down with experience to the extent that not even the fearsome Heckity Broomhead would be immune to the odd bit of backchat from a particularly courageous pupil. There was always one, and The One in form three was Enid.

Amelia walked around to the front of the desk and perched on the corner of it, her hands clasped across her lap.

'Miss Hardbroom is – indisposed, just for today.' She felt the heat rise under her collar with the lie. 'She'll be back with us soon.'

'Is she all right Miss?' Mildred asked, urgently.

'Yes, of course!' Amelia exaggerated a jovial smile, as if to imply that any other notion would be preposterous. But there was no ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that reminded her just how different things would be if she hadn't managed to persuade Constance to forget her conscience for once. And not only that, but now there was the added worry of the matter which Imogen had insisted on speaking to Constance about so urgently that morning…

Over the years Amelia had got to know Constance as well as Constance ever let anybody get to know her, and one thing she had worked out early on in the process was that she shrank from any sort of affection. Having put certain pieces of the puzzle together, an image was emerging in Amelia's mind relating to Imogen's increasing affection for the potions mistress, and it was this which troubled her more than anything. Constance's conscience was one thing; but her insistence on a lifetime of solitude and her repulsion for even the merest implication of anything other than formal physical contact of an _absolutely-necessary_ nature was quite another…

At that moment Amelia's thoughts were dashed to smithereens by the door flying open and Constance striding in, clutching several volumes of the same book with her broom hovering behind her, which carried a basket full of more books. Without so much as moving her lips, each volume flew to a different desk in front of a pupil, causing the girls to start from the sleep-like state most of them had been in. Amelia hopped off the desk and found herself busily shifting papers around, as if to tidy it for her deputy, unsure whether it was safe to take advantage of the relief that was rising inside her.

'Are you quite all right, Headmistress?' Constance asked, crisply, closing the door after her broom which had retreated back into the corridor, the empty basket suspended from it. 'You appear to be a little perturbed.'

Most of the girls were glancing confusedly between the two teachers, except for Mildred, whose bright smile was back in place, her face beaming up at Constance, who did a double-take as she noticed.

'And Mildred Hubble,' she shrilled, 'Must you insist on subjecting me to such an inane grin? Much as I like to think of you enjoying your potions lessons, your performance so far this term suggests that that cannot possibly be the case.'

'No Miss,' Mildred mumbled, forcing the smile to relax. 'I mean – sorry, Miss Hardbroom.'

'Now, thank you for maintaining civility here, Miss Cackle – but as you can see I am only six minutes late. I will take things from here.'

Amelia mumbled words of apology and beamed at the girls, looking to Constance for some obvious signal that she had decided to remain indefinitely. The potions mistress, as usual, gave nothing away. Merely she stood with her arms folded and her brows raised, looking expectantly at Miss Cackle as she waited for her to leave her class.

'Oh, and Miss Cackle?' the headmistress turned, her hand already on the door knob. 'Your post has arrived. It is on your desk.'

Amelia's eyes disappeared as her beaming smile lit her face. That was enough code-speak for her to understand.

'All right, girls,' said Constance, waving a hand briskly in front of the board to rid it of the beginnings of Amelia's bulbous handwriting, 'Pages three hundred and fifteen to three hundred and nineteen – answer all the questions using the diagrams,' she strode over to the window and peered out into the sun-lit yard, where Miss Drill could be seen darting nimbly about as she umpired the fourth-years' netball match. 'And you may confer with each other if you wish.'

A steady chatter rose in the room as the girls deemed it safe to talk, and Constance felt, as she always did in a room full of chattering, studious girls, as though she were in the sanctuary of her own solitude. Allowing herself a moment to observe the activity in the yard, she felt an unfamiliar pang in her stomach as Imogen caught her gaze. Initially inclined to retreat, Constance gave a brief smile. Imogen smiled back, shielding her eyes from the sunlight, before returning her attentions to the game.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The staffroom was unusually quiet later that morning. As Imogen absentmindedly massaged her temples, an elbow either side of her newspaper, pinning it to the table, her eyes drifted up to Davina, who seemed to be none the wiser regarding the events of the past few days. She knitted merrily away, humming an indecipherable tune to herself with eyebrows raised and her gaze cast down at the multicoloured wool. Imogen watched the way the needles moved mesmerically and marvelled at how someone as scatty as Davina could do something both so quickly and in such an organised fashion. Amelia, at the opposite end of the table, was about to eat a double-portion of cheesecake, observing it closely with the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips as she sank her fork slowly into the crumbly mixture. With the sun casting a warm glow through the window, illuminating specks of dust as they mingled in the air, Imogen laid her hand down where the shaft of sunlight crossed the table, enjoying its warmth and indulgently wishing Constance was there.

'Would anybody like a cup of tea?' The three of them jumped simultaneously at the unexpected shattering of peace: Davina squealed and dropped several stitches, Imogen let out an involuntary expletive and the forkful of cheesecake that had been slowly edging its way towards Amelia's mouth toppled into a crumbled mass on the floor.

Constance waited for someone to respond, pouring steaming water into her own cup.

'Er – no thank you, Constance,' Amelia offered, using a piece of kitchen paper to wipe fruit compote from her shoe. 'I received your letter,' here she shot a glance at an alarmed Imogen. 'Thank you for that. Davina, could I have a word outside?'

Davina, having regained enough nerve to return to her knitting, glanced conspiratorially around the room.

'It's break time,' she said, 'We can talk in here!'

'Davina – now, please!' Amelia rose to her feet as she hissed, and the older witch squeaked and hurriedly discarded her knitting as she followed the headmistress out of the room like a lamb gambolling into the next field.

With a growing awkwardness knotting inside her stomach, Imogen kept her eyes focussed on the newspaper, all too aware of the potions mistress's presence behind her.

'I've made you one anyway,' Constance continued, 'Seeing as the cat seems to have got your tongue.'

'Oh – thanks,' Imogen smiled nervously, glancing back over her shoulder.

'I can't remember if you take sugar.'

'Just milk please.'

Imogen inhaled silently as she sensed the Constance's movements, watching her in the periphery of her vision as she placed a cup and saucer on the table in front of Imogen. Constance took her usual seat and entwined her fingers, resting her chin on her knuckles.

'So are you staying then?' Imogen asked, eventually, not taking her eyes from the same page she had been reading since she had arrived after netball. Constance sipped her tea, placing the cup back on the saucer with a gentle clink.

'Yes.'

Imogen studied the photograph of a well-known footballer charging around the pitch with his shirt pulled over his face, and shared his sentiment.

'And what made you decide that?'

Constance reached over to the newspaper that Imogen had pinned under her elbows, pulled it gently out from under them and folded it away.

'You're not reading that, are you,' she informed the gym mistress, who felt a little vulnerable without it.

Constance sat back in her seat, and fixed her gaze on Imogen.

'Thank you for speaking so candidly this morning,' she said, quietly. Imogen's stomach began to swirl and her heart pumped. 'I appreciate that it took a lot of courage for you to say the things you said. I'm sorry if… I'm sorry if I seemed a little – taken aback. I was. I think you can understand that that sort of thing doesn't happen every day.' Imogen nodded, blinking more quickly as her eyes began to sting with tears. Constance inhaled, turning her eyes to the window, and Imogen noticed that she was trembling slightly. 'You have to understand, Imogen, that I am not like other women. I don't crave a family or a relationship. The school is everything to me. My job, the girls… and yes, the three of you. None of you appreciates just how significant you are to me.' Here she gave a quick laugh. 'Not that anyone could blame you – I'm hardly the most affectionate person, am I?' Imogen's eyes gave in to silent tears which began to run rapidly down her reddening cheeks and, foolish as it was, she found herself hoping that Constance would not notice. At that moment Constance shot her a glance. Noticing the tears, she hesitated slightly, before addressing her in a gentler version of a tone usually reserved for a pupil suffering a crisis of confidence.

'Now now, that's quite enough of that, Imogen,' she reached out, wiping the streaming tears gently with her fingers, and Imogen choked through tearful laughter.

'I'm sorry,' she gasped, 'I feel so stupid.'

'Don't,' Constance said. 'We've all done it, haven't we?'

'You mean you have?' Imogen asked, hopefully.

'Well. Perhaps not for a long time.'

Imogen wiped her own hands more severely against her cheeks and sniffed hard.

'God, sorry,' her voice was hollow inside her hands. 'Bet you never thought you'd see this day, did you?'

'I can't say that I did!' Constance's eyes widened slightly with mock amazement, and Imogen realised she was being allowed an insight into an entirely different Constance Hardbroom.

There was a gentle rap on the door, and Constance, rolling her eyes, stalked across the room and thrust the door open, not enabling the interrupting party to have a view of the weeping Imogen.

'What is it, Griselda?'

There were mumbled words from the corridor but Imogen barely tried to decipher them. She wiped a finger under her lashes and looked at the perfect black streaks which transferred her wet mascara to her skin. Then she ran a fingertip under each eye and could only hope she wasn't too much of a mess.

'Well go and find Miss Bat, girl! I'm sure you'll hear her coming when she's within five hundred yards of you,' Imogen smiled to herself, grateful that the old Constance, however cold and distant, was still there – for it was that Constance with whom she had fallen in love.

There was a muffled apology from out in the corridor and Constance closed the door firmly, making her way back to the table and shooting Imogen an exasperated look.

'Right – where were we…' Constance pushed her tea aside and almost smiled at Imogen. 'Well. I suggest use next lesson to gather yourself and I will see to it that your girls utilise it as a study period. I'm sure they wouldn't want to be outside on a beautiful day like this.'

Imogen laughed again.

'Thank you,' she said, aware just what a mess she must have looked.

'For going easy on me. And for everything you did with – well, you know.'

'Let's put it behind us,' Constance said. 'It's been a particularly taxing time for you –and I can honestly say that I've had easier people do deal with. And just to dispel any scurrilous rumours, I am not going anywhere. And – hopefully – neither are you.'

'Of course I'm not,' said Imogen, resisting an urge to take hold of her hand. 'I meant what I said.'

Constance nodded, slid her chair from beneath her and made her way to the door. Imogen watched her, desperately wishing she could replay the whole scene over again and again whenever she wanted to.

'And – er,' Constance hesitated with the door ajar, pushing it so that it was almost entirely closed, 'Perhaps we ought to make the most of one of the nicer evenings and wander down to the village for supper. Away from –' she hesitated and signalled the empty staffroom chairs with a dismissive wave of her finger.

'Yes,' Imogen grinned, trying not to make her euphoria too obvious. 'That would be lovely.'

'Good. That's settled then.' And with a brief smile and a gaze that was held long enough to be stirring to Imogen, Constance left the room.

Imogen clasped her hands and looked thoughtfully up to the ceiling.

_Thank you God_, she thought. _Thank you whoever has just made this the most perfect day of my life_.

And then, feeling slightly foolish, she let the tears of blissful relief roll down her cheeks, too happy to care if anyone walked in and saw her.

THE END


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